The God Wars
by TheAmateur
Summary: Takes place during the final, cataclysmic years of the God Wars. Follows three people whose destiny is intertwined with the end of the God Wars. As Gielinor is torn apart by war, these individuals are caught up in the storm.  Prelude to Growing Darkness
1. Chapter 1: The Warmaster

Chapter One: The Warmaster

Warmaster Athellenas knew that it was going to be a fine day. He did not scan the heavens for clues in the cloud patterns, nor did he attune himself to the humidity or temperature, but he still had a gut feeling that it was going to be a good day.

Athellenas did not question his internal weather predictions. Ever since his earliest days working on a farm in the Far Reaches, Athellenas had always been able to sense what the day's weather would bring, and he had always been right. When his gut told him that it was going to be a nice day, then it was going to be a nice day. Simple as that.

The sun had finally begun to poke its top fringes over the eastern horizon, shooting the sky—which had been a moderate shade of purple that got progressively brighter as it neared the horizon—with rays of scarlet and maroon.

It was a red sunrise.

Athellenas emerged from his small one-man tent and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and breathing in the cool, crisp morning air. He opened his eyes after a minute or so, finally noticing the color of the sunrise. His brow furrowed in a slight frown when he watched the red sun begin its westerly arc through the sky.

Red sunrises never meant good news.

"Trouble, Warmaster?" a voice asked, coming from behind.

Athellenas broke his gaze with the sunrise. He turned around, coming face to face with Sir Derren, his de facto second in command. Athellenas gave a low grunt and turned back to the sun, squinting as it brightened. The wrinkles in his face were pronounced even more as he narrowed his eyes, shielding them from the sun's direct light. He took a step back and stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend. "Red sunrise this morning," the iron-haired Warmaster said, voicing his observations.

Sir Derren was silent for a moment, trying to interpret the Warmaster's hesitance. "You believe it is an omen?" the Centralian knight finally asked, needing clarification.

"The sun is a being in of itself," Athellenas replied, "You would have to ask a Menaphite to explain this; that is part of their religion. Its appearance varies depending on where it is rising. I would suspect that it is its normal yellow mostly anywhere else, but here, in this place, it appears to us in its sanguine form. The sun does not shift its color idly or without reason. Something is amiss."

"You still believe the war is starting up again?" Sir Derren chuckled, "Amusing, Warmaster. I never had you figured for a fatalist."

"I've walked this earth over twice as long as you have," the Warmaster reminded the young knight, "And for most of that time, ever since I left my old farm in the Far Reaches, I've been fighting. With Chaos forces constantly attacking our border regions since the beginning of the Age, there has always been a call for soldiers. I have seen and done many things, Derren, _many_ things… You are foolish to doubt the return of the Gods."

"There has been no real war for over six hundred years, Warmaster," Derren argued, "Zamorak has retreated, gone to his realm where only the divine can exist, defeated by our armies and those of the Aviantese and Iceyene at the River Salve. All he can muster against us are rabbles of barbarians and anarchists to assail our borders. The werewolves, the vampyres, the demons, the undead; they have all vanished into the Wilderness as well, six hundred years ago, and no one has seen any of them since."

"That is what everyone has been saying recently," Athellenas observed; agreeing, though only to a point. "People have been saying it a lot, and more and more often. Why, I ask, do they feel the sudden need to reassure themselves of Zamorak's absence? I'll tell you why," Athellenas leaned in close, speaking in muted tones so that none of his men could overhear if they strayed within earshot, "In my humble experience, whenever people start overly reassuring themselves over something, it is always because they are avoiding an unpleasant truth. Think about it; attacks have increased along our borders, especially from the Wilderness. Reports of sightings of demons and the other Chaos monsters are coming into the capital every day. Now, trade caravans coming from the Elven Lands to the west are disappearing, which is why _we're_ out here. The Gods are returning. Zamorak is returning to challenge Saradomin. He was never defeated by that battle at the River Salve; he was only inconvenienced. It will not be long before-"

"What you speak of is heresy," Derren warned, "The Church of Saradomin has strictly banned-"

"Do not dictate to me what I can and cannot say," Athellenas interrupted his second in command, "I answer to King Osman, not to the Church," the Warmaster grunted, "The King has given the Church too much of a role in day to day and military affairs. If one more Paladin approaches me and attempts to question my loyalty to Saradomin and to Centralia, I just might burst a vein. The Paladin who volunteered to accompany me on this patrol is enough of a nuisance…" the Warmaster trailed off, losing himself once more in the sunrise before giving a shrug. "Bah, it matters not. The king cannot fully mobilize without a Declaration of War approved by the Forum, and the Forum will make no such declaration unless the Church supports it, and the fools running the Church see only what they want to see. _Politics_…" Athellenas spat the word as if it were a curse.

To the likes of him, it was.

"Where do we ride today?" Sir Derren asked finally, changing tack.

"North-Northwest," the Warmaster replied. "Last night, I received a messenger eagle from Lord Fernando, King Osman's majordomo and the Praetor of the Forum. My decision to join the patrol has turned out to be a fortunately coincidental one. There is a small town called Ephyrn not far from here. It is not an overly opulent place, but it does command the heights on the westerly border of the Wilderness, just northeast of the Far Reaches."

"I know of this place," Sir Derren nodded. "The scouts based in that town have long provided us with vital information on activity in the Wilderness."

"Until now," Warmaster Athellenas murmured. "Our men in Ephyrn have ceased sending that information. Contact with the town has been lost for some time now, and Lord Fernando, acting on the King's behalf, wishes for us to investigate."

"You believe something bad has happened?" Derren asked.

"I believe the rising sun being red this morning was no coincidence," Athellenas replied, "Come, we have dallied here for too long. If any of the men still slumber, go and rouse them. We ride in ten minutes."

"As you command, Warmaster," Sir Derren bowed quickly, then turned on his heel and strode off into the encampment that had been set up by the small force of cavalry that the Warmaster had led for the routine patrol through the northern reaches of Centralia. Sir Derren started barking orders, rousing the two score cavalrymen who had been fast asleep in their tents. "Break camp and gear up; we ride north!"

Athellenas quickly dismantled his tent, rolling the cloth up into a tight bundle, which he secured with a small piece of rope. The fifty-seven year old Warmaster then slid into his armor, pulling on the leather hood that would cushion his cranium from his helm. He slipped on his chest plate, tightening the straps that held it in place, and then secured his pauldrons to his shoulders, his greaves to his legs, his perebrace and vanbraces onto his arms, finishing up by slipping his armored gauntlets onto his hands. He flexed his fingers, making sure that they were fully inside the grip of the gauntlets and able to move normally.

Last, Athellenas donned his helm. It was a barbute-style helm; a simple, rounded, visorless helmet with a Y-shaped opening in the front for the eyes and the mouth. The helm was also adorned with a bristly white plume, one that ran in a thin, straight line from above the eyes, up and over the top of the helmet, and down to the nape of the neck.

Athellenas bent over and picked up his sword, securing the belt which his scabbard was attached onto to his waist. The Warmaster drew his sword for a last minute inspection. Like the rest of his armor, Athellenas's sword was composed of runite—a super-dense, blue ore that, when smelted into an alloy, pounded out, and shaped by an expert blacksmith, served as arguably the strongest armor attainable in all of Gielinor, with the possible exception of dragon armor. Dragon armor, however, had not been seen for millennia and existed only in the myths and legends.

Warmaster Athellenas had gone through a lot to earn his runite armor. It was many times stronger than the common steel found throughout the land, able to take even more punishment than the mithril used by the elves in their lands beyond the Far Reaches, west of the White Wolf Mountains, where most Humans had never been. Those who had gone beyond the White Wolf Mountains had done so only for temporary forages, personal exploration, or for diplomatic missions. No Humans actually _lived_ beyond the Far Reaches.

Athellenas ran a finger down the length of his sword. He gently touched the edge of the blade, his mouth curving in satisfied grin as a small, faint cut appeared on his thumb. He had sharpened and lubricated the blade the night before, and it definitely showed. Satisfied that his blade was ready for battle, the Warmaster slid it back into its scabbard.

By now, most of the forty or forty-five men of the cavalry patrol force were finishing up breaking camp, getting ready to hit the road, or whatever route Athellenas ended up taking them through. There were very few roads in this region of Centralia due to its proximity to the Wilderness.

Athellenas gathered up his tent and walked over to the large tree he had pitched his tent next to.

Onyx saw the Warmaster approaching and rose to all fours, waiting for his master to mount up. Athellenas stroked his steed's mane. He reached into one of Onyx's saddlebags and drew out a speckled blue apple, acquired by foragers from the heart of Karamja, the large tropical island in the seas southeast of lower Centralia. The Warmaster held the apple out to Onyx, and the dappled white and gray warhorse snatched it up with his teeth. Onyx tossed the Karamjan apple up into the air and caught it in its mouth, crunching down on the fruit and devouring it, snuffling with pleasure as he ate.

"We've got some hard riding to do today, old friend," Athellenas murmured to his horse, taking a moment to scratch the place below Onyx's ears where the horse always seemed to have an itch.

The Warmaster gave Onyx one last clap on the neck before he strode around and untied the warhorse from the tree. He tied the rope to the saddle and stuffed the bundled-up tent into the empty saddlebag on Onyx's left side. Now completely packed, Athellenas swung himself up into Onyx's saddle. He took a moment to inhale and exhale, steadying himself, and then took up Onyx's reigns. He dug his boots into Onyx's sides a little bit, his way of telling the horse to start moving.

Onyx started to amble around the tree. Athellenas guided him with the reigns, riding into the center of the place where only minutes before his men's encampment had stood. The slower soldiers were only just climbing into their saddles, but all the rest were patiently waiting for the Warmaster's order to move out.

"Circle around!" Athellenas ordered, raising his voice for all to hear. The forty-odd men in the small force of cavalry reigned in their steeds and assembled in a rough semi-circle around Athellenas, as commanded. Athellenas swept his gaze over the cavalrymen under his immediate command. He knew every one of them—they were a part of the elite company that he rode with during battle.

"Gentlemen!" Warmaster Athellenas began, "We ride north, to Ephyrn! Dispatches from Tethys came in last night by messenger eagle—King Osman and Lord Fernando report that all contact with the town has been lost. Our scouts there have been silent for over a week now, and Tethys has received none of the monthly taxes. Seeing as we are only several hours away from Ephyrn, and are therefore the nearer to the town than any other Royal authority, we have been ordered to proceed to Ephyrn and investigate the reason for their silence," Athellenas declared. He took a moment to clear his throat, and then continued, speaking in a lower, more subtle tone. "Off the record…I believe ill has befallen Ephyrn. Whatever we find there, I do not think it will be to our liking. Therefore, I would strongly advise all of you to keep alert and keep your weapons where you can reach them. Always prepare for a worst-case scenario. Understood?"

"_Aye!_" the two score cavalrymen chorused in reply.

"Very good," Athellenas nodded approvingly. He gave his reigns a sharp rap, prompting Onyx to break out into a trot, advancing through the semi-circle of cavalrymen. The cavalry broke formation and fell in behind the Warmaster.

Sir Derren urged his own steed forward until he rode abreast with his commander, taking his rightful place in the unit.

The Warmaster spurred Onyx on until the steed began to move at a full gallop. The whole force of cavalry quickly followed suit, and soon the forty-odd cavalrymen were traversing the countryside at their usual breakneck pace.

Athellenas closed his eyes periodically, taking pleasure in the feeling of the wind against his face, whistling in through the Y-shaped eye and mouth slit in his helm. Northwestern Centralia was truly a beautiful place. It was early summer now, so the prevalent colors were green and brown. There were enough pine and oak trees in this region to walk from the Wilderness border to Tethys—the capital of Centralia—to the River Lum without ever setting foot on soil.

This area of the country was even more beautiful in the autumn, when the trees appeared in many different colors; red, yellow, orange, violet. Still, the perpetual greens of summer were by no means any less satisfying to take in.

The sun climbed higher and higher into the sky until it finally rested at its noontime apex.

Athellenas called for a quick rest in the early afternoon for the men to feed their horses and rejuvenate themselves, but before too long they were back to it, pounding their way north towards the Wilderness border.

Some of the soldiers chatted quietly with one another, but for the most part the company was silent, focusing all of its energy into its ride.

It was not until the sun was well into its descent to the western horizon and the daylight turned a rich golden amber that Athellenas thrust a fist out at a ninety-degree angle in the air, bringing the company to a halt. His nostrils flared as they caught a twinge of the scent that had prompted him to stop.

"Something's burning…" Sir Derren observed, smelling the same smell as his commander. A smattering of grunts and murmurs rolled through the company as the others caught whiff of the smoke.

"Look there!" one of the soldiers exclaimed, pointing slightly to the left of the direction the company was riding in. A pillar of smoke was steadily rising into the air, dispersing into the sky as it gained altitude. It would have been hard to spot through the trees while riding at full clip, but now that the men were at a halt it was clearly visible.

The murmurings grew to uneasy exclamations and speculations.

"That's right where Ephryn is," one of the mounted archers spoke up, "The only thing I could think of to create a pillar of smoke that large would be-"

"-the whole cursed town burning," Sir Derren finished. As much as the men did not want to believe that possibility, it was making more and more sense. Losing contact with a town and then spotting a large pillar of black smoke where it was supposed to be located were _not_ good signs. Throw in a red sunrise, and you had yourself quite a recipe for disaster.

Athellenas reached down to his hip and grasped his hilt, slowly drawing his sword. "Break up into lances," the Warmaster ordered. "Sir Derren, you lead one lance and hook far to the left. Advance on my signal. Go."

Sir Derren drew his sword as well and offered a quick salute with the tip of his blade; flicking it up to his brow, and then back down. He took fourteen men and rode off into the forest. The light thumping of the horses' hooves was quickly swallowed up by the forest.

"Sergeant Edris," Athellenas turned to Edris, a seasoned cavalry veteran who had been in the Centralian Royal Army even longer than the Warmaster, "Lead the archers and take point. We are going straight for Ephyrn…and I'm expecting there to be hostiles. If we do encounter hostiles, take the archers and soften them up as best as you can, then clear the way for my lance. We'll be coming in as your support."

"Understood," Edris nodded. He turned in his saddle and shouted, "Archers, on me!"

The ten mounted archers in the company trotted over to the veteran, forming up behind him. At Edris's behest, they, too, sped off into the forest, leaving Athellenas alone with the remaining eighteen riders.

"Ride fast, keep your weapons at the ready," Athellenas advised them, "Hope for the best, but expect the worst, for I fear that it is the worst that lies before us, not the best. Do not let your guard down. Expect enemies. Any last questions?"

When no one spoke up, the Warmaster gave a final nod and spurred Onyx back into a gallop. The rest of the lance fell in behind the Warmaster as he rode through the forest, heading towards the column of smoke.

The trees gradually thinned out until they gave way to wide, gentle, rolling hills covered in long grass and small, white and yellow flowers. As Athellenas and his lance of soldiers crested the first hill, they could see Edris's men topping the hill ahead.

"Faster, men!" Athellenas urged his lance on, tightening his grip on his runite longsword. The seconds seemed to crawl by. It took Athellenas's lance several minutes to traverse the miniature valley in between hills before climbing the hill Edris's men had just ascended.

A collective gasp rose from the men in Athellenas's lance as they crested the second hill and were finally able to see the town of Ephyrn.

Or at least what remained of it.

Even Athellenas uttered several choice oaths under his breath as he took in the sight.

All of Ephyrn was ablaze. The buildings were all at least half burned down, a good number being only ashes and pieces of charcoal. A fetid stink also assailed the Warmaster's nostrils whenever the wind blew in his direction from the town. It was the stink of death.

Edris and his archers were already waiting at the town's outskirts. "Warmaster," Sergeant Edris said in report, "No hostiles sighted...no citizens sighted, either. Recommend we pull in Sir Derren and advance through the ruins. Better to secure them first before conducting our investigation."

Athellenas nodded. "Agreed." The Warmaster reached under his chest plate and drew out the small reed pipe that he wore on a cord around his neck. He brought the pipe to his lips and blew, sending three quick, harsh notes into the air. He waited for a second, and then heard the same three notes in the distance as Sir Derren acknowledged his message.

Warmaster Athellenas did not lighten the near deathgrip he had on his sword. As he led his and Edric's lances down one of the main boulevards that ran through the length of the town—straight from the outskirts to the central square—he could not help but ignore an uneasy feeling in his gut. The charred buildings on either side seemed to yawn at him and his men. They seemed menacing, threatening. Something was amiss, but no one could say what.

The iron-haired Warmaster continued his advance, glancing down every street he passed, but finding and seeing nothing. The town was a ghost-town, devoid of life. The wind breathed through the streets, agitating and stirring up rubbish and garbage that had accumulated on the ground for what seemed like the past few days.

Athellenas reached the central town square at the same time as Sir Derren, so all of the cavalrymen received the same feeling of shock and revulsion at the same time. Looking at the grisly sight, Warmaster Athellenas now knew why the morning sun had been red.

Piled in the center of the square was a mountain of corpses. Men, women, children, infants, soldiers—all of them piled barbarically on top of one another in a grotesque mound higher than the buildings hemming the square in. All of them had arrows or spears protruding from their stomachs and chests, or burn marks covering their flesh. All of them were horribly mutilated as well—every corpse had at least one missing limb or appendage. Many were missing heads or faces—some were simply quite literally torn to shreds.

Several of Athellenas's soldiers leaned over in their saddles, pulled off their helms, and vomited their breakfast onto the cobblestones, unable to control their bowels in the presence of such horror.

"Saradomin's beard, they've all been butchered…" one of the soldiers whispered.

Athellenas was about to order his men to secure the remains and begin investigating, based on the weapons, who was responsible for the slaughter that had happened here, when he heard something.

Athellenas's back actually arched in trepidation when he heard it. It was almost nothing, a faint whisper on the wind, but the Warmaster would have sworn on his parents' graves—rest their souls—that he had heard a laugh. A low, gravelly, brutish laugh, if only for an instant.

"Defensive positions!" Athellenas shouted, not taking any chances. He knew what he had heard, and he was not one to ignore his instincts. Something was afoot here, and he was not about to expose himself to anything that might-

Suddenly, a hail of arrows leaped out at the cavalrymen from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Shouts and agonized cries rose up from the men as they were struck down by the barbed arrows. Five men were shot down from their saddles, and six more were wounded, but managed to remain upright.

Where on the rooftops there had been nothing an instant ago, there were now a group of dark, hulking shapes with small heads and tusks protruding from their mouths. They wielded bows, and were already reloading, having unleashed their first surprise volley.

"Orks!" the cry rose up as the Centralians spotted their assailants.

More of the hulking green beasts appeared in the streets as well, surging into the square, wielding clubs, axes, and maces. All of them were screaming and roaring their war cries, calling for the blood of their enemies.

The archers reacted fast, loading the bows and loosing their arrows towards the ork archers. Bodies steadily began to tumble down from the roofs as the human arrows found their marks.

"A concealing charm!" Athellenas roared, now realizing how the orks had appeared out of nowhere without having been spotted first, "They must have a shaman among their ranks! Form up and fight in pairs! Don't expose your backs!"

Even as the Warmaster spoke, one of the charging orks scored a hit on a mounted soldier, plunging a gleaming knife into the man as he tried to fight off one of the ork's companions. The soldier convulsed, fell off of his horse, and lay still.

A great and terrible rage tore through Athellenas. The Warmaster opened his mouth and roared, venting his fury to the heavens at having been led into a trap that any naïve footsoldier should have been able to see coming. He spurred Onyx forward straight into a group of orks assailing four of his men.

Athellenas brought his runite sword swiping down into the first ork he rode into. He relished the smooth, sliding feeling the sword gave him as it cleanly separated the ork's head from its shoulders. He brought his sword back around and plunged it into the neck of a second ork, grinning savagely as the beast uttered an agonized cry, choking on the blood welling up in its throat.

The Warmaster lost track of time as he tore into the horde of orks. His sword cleaved through flesh, muscle, and bone like a politician's tongue through the truth. After a short time he allowed himself a quick glance of the square and gave a satisfied grunt. Though his cavalry had been surprised by the ambush, they had quickly recovered. Scores of orks now lay dead in ever-growing pools of their own life essence. As the last few were being mopped up by the archers, something new came along.

An unearthly roar reverberated through the town, and one of the buildings exploded outward into the square, sending splinters and debris flying dozens of feet into the air. The Centralians ducked and shielded their faces as the splinters rained down on them.

A giant figure lumbered into the square. Athellenas recognized it all too well—the thin, sinewy torso, the long arms and legs, the bright red skin, the horns protruding from its brow.

It was a demon.

The demon opened its mouth and roared, displaying row upon row of razor-sharp, glittering incisors.

"Finally, a challenge," Athellenas grunted. He flipped Onyx's reigns and sent his horse galloping towards the monster at full tilt, briefly twirling his runite sword through his fingers like a baton before reestablishing his grip on the hilt.

The demon regarded the charging Warmaster with some level of surprise—it had been a long time since a human had ever gone on the offensive with it, let alone _charged_ it head-on. It began to lumber forward, rushing to intercept the charging Warmaster. It would finish Athellenas off first, and then it would see to the rest of the humans in the area.

Athellenas bent down low in the saddle, making as if he were going to strike at the demon's abdomen. As he neared the red beast, the demon anticipated this as well. It lunged forward and swiped at Onyx, aiming low so it would hit the Warmaster's flank.

The Warmaster had expected the demon to do exactly what it did. He squeezed Onyx's sides with his thighs and gave a harsh, guttural shout as his horse leaped into the air. The horse's leg muscles rippled as it propelled itself up. Because the demon had struck so low, Onyx was actually able to leap clean over the monster's arm and claws, much like a hurdle.

Warmaster Athellenas returned the demon's favor by cleaving his sword into its left shoulder, leaving the one arm hanging useless. The demon howled in pain as the runite tore through its flesh and muscle, blindly flailing its other arm about in a frenzied effort to maul the one who had dared to wound it in such a manner.

Athellenas circled the demon, carefully ducking and jumping to dodge its blows and swipes, weaving in and out of its reach. The Warmaster continued to tease the demon with his presence, inflicting minor cuts and wounds on its body that gradually started to accumulate. The Warmaster could tell that this demon was a weaker specimen than many of its brethren—it had no sense of tactics and it was somewhat slow and clumsy. That would be its downfall.

Finally, enraged at not being able to hit the Warmaster and at the dozens of lacerations all over its torso and limbs, the demon leaped forward again in a final lunge, but this was what Athellenas had been waiting for. He moved aside and dodged the demon's swipes, then brought his sword cleaving down, shearing off the demon's right arm. Now it was left with only a useless left arm.

The demon howled in fury, the pain of the wounds drowned out by its anger and frustration. Without its arms, however, it did not take long for Athellenas to slip past the demon's guard. The runite sword deftly slid between the demon's ribs and into its heart, ending its existence once and for all.

Athellenas did not pull his sword free. Instead, his planted a boot on the now-dead demon's chest and pushed it off, letting the corpse fall to the ground. The Warmaster inhaled heavily, slowly regaining his breath. "I'm getting to old for this kind of horseshit…" the iron-haired Centralian muttered under his breath. He straightened up in his saddle and sheathed his sword. "Sir Derren! Casualty report."

"Warmaster, I report nine men dead, another thirteen wounded," Sir Derren reported after his headcount.

Athellenas allowed himself a small sigh. Nine men was a high price to pay for what was only supposed to be a small recon mission. He gave himself a few minutes to plan his next move, remaining silent and bowing his head in respect for the fallen. He let recent events sink in; while the slaughter of the citizens of Ephyrn told the soldiers nothing about who committed the act, the presence of orks and demons more than confirmed Athellenas's long-sown suspicions.

"Attend to the wounded and pair them up with the strongest riders," the Warmaster ordered, "We ride back for Tethys at dawn tomorrow, and we shall tell King Osman of what has transpired here…if this does not galvanize the Forum to approve a Declaration of War, I do not know what will. For now…let us ride as far away from this place as we can before dusk. Then we shall set up camp, bury our dead, and rest for the night."

Murmurs and nods of acknowledgment were the only reply the Warmaster received. Athellenas did not mind—his men had just come through a heavy skirmish. They were exhausted. Their lack of responsiveness was more than understandable.

The Warmaster did not dwell on thoughts such as those, though. He was thinking of other things. In a way, he saw that this massacre could have…it would be sick to call it a 'silver lining', but there was no other term that could describe it any better. He saw that this massacre could have a silver lining in that the evidence of the Gods' return was now concrete, confirmed by the presence of orks and demons.

Beasts of Zamorak's chaos had finally attacked Centralian soil, emerging from their hiding places in the Wilderness. This had now shattered the delicate peace which had settled over the land for the past few centuries.

Zamorak was back, and that meant that the War that had already destroyed so much and caused untold amounts of chaos and misery in the past was about to start up again once more.

Yet again, in another twist of Fate, one of the few times Warmaster Athellenas wished he was wrong, he ended up being right anyway. As his men began to set up camp at dusk, he watched as the sun slowly sank down past the western horizon.

The sunset was red as well.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Hello readers. This my my first attempt on Runescape, so here's to breaking the ice! Just a few things to clear up--because this takes place during the God Wars (Third Age) most of what you find in the game does not yet exist. Varrock, Falador, Ardoughne, Lumbridge, Al-Kharid, Burthorpe--_none_ of these places are built until the Fourth or Fifth Ages, so the Gielinor of this Age is significantly different than the one experienced in the games. I pretty much just took Misthalin and Asgarnia and combined them into one large Human Kingdom, just to clear things up for people who haven't figured out what Centralia is yet.  
_

_Most of you people probably already know this, but I just wanted to make sure._

_Thanks!_

_-TheAmateur_


	2. Chapter 2: Avinius

Chapter Two: Avinius

The boy moved like a shadow. Obviously, he was not _actually_ a shadow—that would defy nature, even in a world like Gielinor. He did, however, know his way around the city. Anyone who knew their way around the labyrinth of crowded streets, hidey-holes, twisting back alleys, underground passages, sewers, and rooftop routes that made up the Menaphite city of Ullek would be able to move like a shadow, too.

The boy's wiry, skinny—almost malnourished—frame allowed him to cleanly slip through the living tide of human beings flowing this way and that down the road he happened to be on.

For an outsider, the streets of Ullek were a nightmare. They twisted and turned in seemingly erratic, random directions, confusing and frustrating anyone who did not understand the layout.

The boy knew that the unusual layout of the streets had something to do with making the city much more efficient to defend in the event of an attack. He did not know _how_ exactly the city's defensibility was affected or improved by this layout, but, at the same time, he did not care. He knew how to navigate the streets, and that was enough. Utilizing them for defense against enemies was the Qarat's job, not his.

Today, the sun was particularly hot. Heat distortion roiled up in waves from the cobblestones and buildings, shimmering in the air as it dispersed. Menaphite citizens ambled up and down the cobbled roads; on their way to meet with companions, on their way to work, on their way to the Plaza, or simply out for a walk—the streets were filled with them all, regardless of their objectives. Vendors hollered from their stands and kiosks, encouraging the people to come over and buy their goods, or shooing away loitering children.

Upper-class gentry traveled down the roads in shaded carriages drawn by ugthanki camels. If you didn't get out of the way when they came rattling by, you would be trampled and run over.

Qaratai, soldiers of the Imperial Menaphite Army—more commonly referred to as the 'Qarat' in Arrish, the language of the desert—stood guard all over the streets as well, sticking to the intersections and occasionally patrolling the spaces in between. They were all deadly fighters, else they would not have earned the honor of wearing the golden blue armor of the Qarat in the first place. They stood straight and proud, keeping a careful eye out for crime and troublemakers.

As the boy flitted past Qarat guards, they automatically eyed him with suspicion. The boy was shirtless, he was clad in ragged, black cloth shorts, and his feet were wrapped in thick, padded cloth in order to cushion his soles, but to also silence the sound of his footsteps. He also held a burlap sack over his shoulder. He looked like the epitome of a thief, and so it was natural for the Qaratai to single him out as they did. What saved him was that there were many orphans and roving children in the city of Ullek, so although the guards may suspect him when they saw him, they would quickly forget him after he vanished from their sight.

The boy ignored the glances he got from the Qaratai. He usually always received curious looks from the locals, anyway, even though he had lived in Ullek his entire life. Menaphites had made their home in the desert since the early First Age, when recorded history began. Spending such a long time in the Desert, constantly under the burning sun, had given all of the Menaphite people in general at least a deep bronze skin tone. Skin color varied in the Menaphite population. While the majority were brown-skinned, there was a significant portion of the population whose skin could be as dark as rich lager, in stark contrast to their fair, light-skinned Centralian neighbors across the Southern Ocean and the great River Lum to the northwest.

The boy, unlike his fellow Menaphites, was as pale as the desert moon. His ten years of life under the harsh desert sun had not darkened him, but the really interesting thing that no one could explain was that he did not burn in the sun, either. He simply remained pale, unaffected by the desert climate. Many fellow Menaphites often mistook him for a Centralian, until he began speaking to them in fluent Arrish. He was also fluent in the Common Tongue, the primary language of the Centralians, which was known and spoken all throughout Gielinor, but Arrish still remained his birth language.

The boy darted out of the way of a passing carriage, following the curve of the road as it ran deeper into Ullek. Eventually it opened up and, along with dozens of other roads, ran straight into the Plaza.

The Plaza was the living, pulsing heart of Ullek; the nexus of all life in the large Menaphite city. Merchant traders from the coast, which was a short distance to Ullek's southeast, filled the huge, circular plaza, doing their business alongside city vendors, vigilant guards, entertainers, and the throngs of Menaphites seeking to do business with one another, or simply seeking to spend a fun, relaxed day in the sun.

The Plaza was filled with the sound of voices more than anything else. Hundreds of voices, all layering and mixing together to form their own mosaic of noise. Commoners argued, haggled, and bartered with the vendors, vendors called out their goods and prices, trying every method they knew to lure customers with deep pockets to their stands, entertainers wandered through the space juggling balls, knives, scimitars, or flaming batons. There were even a few snake charmers—their calm, soothing pipe music flowed into the Plaza's cacophony of sound as the charmers entranced the cobras in their wicker baskets.

Ullek had a culture of its own, and there was no better way to experience it firsthand than going to the Plaza.

If an outsider were to visit the plaza, he or she would probably call it Chaos. That was most likely true, from an outsider's perspective. From a Menaphite's perspective, or from the perspective of an experienced trader or merchant who know the ropes of Menaphite culture and business, the Plaza was extremely efficient. Ullek owed much of its thriving economy to it. It was simple and straightforward trading. Consumers purchased their items with upfront gold, or with goods of their own which they bartered with to the merchants. If they did not have the money or a sufficient trade, they would not get the item they wanted. That way, it was impossible for a merchant to not get paid, and it was also impossible for a consumer to fall into debt.

The boy loved the Plaza. The bustling life, the seemingly chaotic movement of people, the high rush of emotions, temptations, and desires made the boy feel _alive_. It felt to him like he was submerging himself in a sea of life.

He also loved the Plaza because it was easy to evade the authorities here. The crowds could hide a skinny orphan better than an invisibility enchantment.

The boy spotted a companion of his; a tall, muscular adolescent of sixteen years with wave, shoulder-length dark hair. He stood under the lamppost he always stood under when waiting to meet someone in the Plaza. He was the reason why the boy had come to the Plaza today.

The adolescent caught sight of the boy, too, and waved, beckoning for the boy to come over.

The boy grinned and sprinted over to the lamppost, weaving his way through the crowd with the agility that only a child who has lived on the streets for his entire life knew. "Good to see you, Jafa," the boy exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.

"Likewise, Avis," Jafa chuckled in reply, pulling the boy into a crushing bear hug. Jafa had been gone for the past eight months, pressed into a hard labor work gang in the swamps north of the city, gathering wood for the traders. He had been caught on the streets with stolen jewels. Normally, the Qarat took a hand for thievery, but they did not actually catch Jafa in the act of stealing the jewels, so he was instead presented the choice of losing a hand, or getting sent to a hard labor camp.

He chose wisely, needless to say.

"Everyone at the orphanage has missed you," the boy, Avis, said, "Lessa nearly went into a depression when you were arrested. They'll be glad to have you back."

"I'll bet," Jafa mused. The adolescent inhaled and exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to see you before I headed back to the orphanage and got reacquainted with the old gang. Will I be seeing you tonight, then?"

"Bet on it," Avis nodded. The ten-year-old did not always spend his time at the hidden orphanage where Jafa and the rest of the orphans in their little gang made their living, preferring instead to take his chances wandering the vibrant streets above, but he still did return to the place where he had spent his infancy and early childhood when the situation called for it. Jafa's return was definitely worth a night at the orphanage.

"That's what I like to hear, Avinius," Jafa smiled. He was one of only two people who ever used Avis's real name, the other being Farrah, the old man who tended to the orphanage. Well, technically there were _three_ people, but Avis did not think of the third. Jafa gave Avis a mock salute with two fingers, then turned and slid away into the crowd, vanishing from view.

The boy started to wander again, internally deliberating on where he should go next. After weighing his options, he decided to go and 'borrow' some bread from one of the vendors and have a late lunch before making his way towards the orphanage.

Avis swept his gaze through the Plaza, looking for a suitable stand that was far enough from the patrolling Qaratai, and close to a crowd of traders.

As he searched, the boy settled deep into thought. He was really excited to have Jafa back, but he also had a funny, nagging sensation at the back of his mind. There had been a light, almost invisible tension inside the older boy. Avis knew that there was something Jafa wasn't telling him.

Avis shrugged nonchalantly after coming to that conclusion. If Jafa had something to say, he would most like divulge it tonight at the orphanage. If it was something important, Avis could understand why the older boy did not want to utter it in a crowded public place.

Still…Jafa had called him 'Avinius'. He usually never did that. True, 'Avinius' was Avis's real name—meaning 'Of the Heavens' in Arrish—but no one ever called him that. He chose to go by Avis because it was shorter and it sounded more like the names of his peers. Jafa was one of the only ones who used that name, and he only did that when he was nervous or angry. Seeing as he did not seem angry when he was speaking earlier, that narrowed down the options somewhat. Something was definitely up.

The boy wrenched his mind back to the here and now as he stumbled across a baker's kiosk. A large, rotund, potbellied man reclined in his seat, fanning himself in the sun. He had not gotten very many customers yet, but that was normal. Bread usually went out in style earlier in the morning, or close to dinnertime in the evening.

Avis grabbed hold of the burlap sack he had been carrying over his shoulder, letting it fall down to his side. This vendor would do. He ambled past the kiosk of bread, closely observing the people who were around it. This was what he always did before making a move; one quick recon pass, followed up by a lightning-fast second pass which the owner would barely see coming.

Today, Avis decided to play it a little more subtle. He usually saved his blitzkrieg tactics for when he and his friends from the orphanage were executing a joint heist. This time, he was on his own, so he really did not want to alert the guards if he could help it.

After vanishing into the crowd and backtracking several hundred meters, Avis re-emerged and began walking towards the kiosk. The sweaty man reclining in his chair regarded the boy with some mild interest, recognition stirring in his eyes.

Avis looked away, obscuring his face from the bread vendor. If the vendor recognized him, then he would be two or three times as likely to suspect thievery. It was times like these when Avis's pale skin worked against him; the harsh sunlight turned it almost into a beacon. What usually saved him was that he was quick enough on his feet to scramble out of sight before the guards caught a flash of him twice.

The vendor gave a slight shrug, and returned to his previous position, finding no interest in the curious white-skinned child who had been approaching his kiosk.

Avis breathed a sigh of relief. This would be much easier without the vendor staring straight at him.

The boy cast a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, and then quickly walked past the kiosk. He continued moving after he passed the kiosk, throwing the burlap sack back over his shoulder. Though no one would have noticed unless they were actually looking for it to happen, the sack now contained three loaves of bread. The boy hadn't even seemed to bend over to pick them up. Nearly a decade of thieving on the streets had taught him well.

Avis felt the weight of the three loaves of bread he had just lifted, and the corners of his mouth twitched in a wry grin. He would eat part of one now, and then bring the rest to the orphanage. Farrah would be able to work wonders with them.

Avis was just sidestepping a pair of older women who were in his path, when he was suddenly jerked out of his thoughts of the dinner Farrah would be able to prepare with the bread. A pair of arms wrapped around his chest from behind, drawing him tightly into an iron embrace, pinning his arms to his sides and leaving his feet kicking helplessly a foot off the ground. The boy yelped in surprise, but a hand was clamped over his mouth before he could start screaming.

"I'll warrant you thought yourself so clever, taking that man's bread when you thought no one was watching," the man whispered into Avis's ear. Avis's struggles ceased, his back stiffening as he recognized the man's voice. "Ah…good…I was afraid you had forgotten me. I certainly haven't forgotten you, nor have I forgotten _this,_" the man wrenched Avis around to face him, removing his hand from the boy's mouth, and pointed to the left side of his face.

Avis looked into the man's face, the sharp, angular, hawkish features of the Qatarai who had captured him. Even though he had recognized the man's voice, his fears were confirmed when he saw his face. The left half of his face that he was pointing to—particularly around the eye—was puckered and scarred. He had been badly burned sometime in the past. "Jhabour," the boy murmured.

The Qaratai smiled, though it was more of a vicious leer than a grin. "Actually, it's _Ai_-Jhabour, now," the guard corrected the boy, "In recognition of my efforts to rid this city of crime."

"_Ai_-Jhabour…" Avis echoed. "They promoted you, then? Standards must be going down…"

Ai-Jhabour snorted, whipping Avis back around to face front. "Oh, Avis, Avis, Avis; it's been too long since we've last met. I do miss the old banter."

The Qarat guard captain pulled Avis's hands behind his back, keeping a firm grip, produced a set of irons, and clamped them over the boy's hands. He pushed the boy forward, propelling him through the Plaza. The crowd continued to go about their daily business, not paying the Qarat captain and his captive much mind. Seeing an orphan being arrested for thievery was not an uncommon sight in any city.

Ai-Jhabour gave a sharp whistle as he neared a road that led away from the Plaza, and four Qaratai gave a quick bow and hurried off, no doubt to fetch a prison carriage. "I don't think you realize truly how much I've looked forward to finally bagging you," the guard captain said, turning down the street. The bystanders and civilians filling the street instinctively parted, creating a path for the guard captain to stroll through. "I must admit, I would have preferred it if I had the rest of your little gang in my possession as well, especially the black-haired adolescent—what's his name? Jafa?" Ai-Jhabour shrugged. "It matters not. You've always been at the top of my list."

"That so?" Avis cocked an eyebrow, stepping over the shattered remains of a piece of pottery that had been abandoned in the middle of the street. "I should be honored. I _should_ be. What's the butcher's bill going to be, then?"

"Why are you acting so calm?" Ai-Jhabour countered, Avis's ambivalence towards his predicament sparking his old suspicion again. "Most would be blubbering, trying to buy or barter their way free."

"I have no money to give and no treasures to barter," Avis shrugged, "I have no friends nearby to help me, and I can't possibly pick the locks of these irons with you holding me. You also know this…and even if I _did_ have anything to offer you, you still wouldn't let me go. Why should I make a scene?"

Ai-Jhabour chuckled again. "You're very intelligent for someone of your age…too intelligent, if you ask me. But do not fret; I shall remedy that. I'm bringing you in to the prisons. We shall take a hand for thievery, and then after that…who knows? I'm sure you remember our first encounter four years ago?"

Avis remembered that night all too well. He had been six years old, Jafa had been twelve. The two of them had been caught stealing by Jhabour when he was a newly-inducted member of the Qarat. Jhabour had not been like most Qaratai, however; he seemed to be in the business to provide an outlet for his lust for violence. He had pursued Avis and Jafa through the entire district for at least ten minutes. By the time he finally caught up to them, he was impatient, frustrated, bruised, injured, and angry. He had no intention of turning the two thieves over to the authorities, intending instead to finish them off right then and there on the rooftops.

Avis had thrust a burning torch into the Qaratai's face, giving the captain the scar he now sported. Ai-Jhabour had relentlessly hunted Avis through the streets of Ullek ever since, and today he had gotten lucky. He had caught Avis off guard.

Needless to say, Avis had no intention of ever even setting foot inside the prisoner carriage, but he did not need to voice his plans to the Qarat captain. Better to keep the man talking, make him less vigilant and careful, more likely to make a mistake.

"Yeah, I remember," Avis replied. "Your scar's not as red as it used to be. Too bad, I liked it when-"

Ai-Jhabour tightened his grip on the boy's neck, severely discouraging him from speaking anymore. "That tongue of yours does you little good, Avinius," Ai-Jhabour, the unmentioned third person who ever used Avis's real name, sighed. "After I take your hand, I shall take that as well. Let us see how well you will backtalk _then_."

Avis gulped on the inside. This was getting extreme. He had to find a way to escape _soon_…a distraction…anything… He would have to use his Ability, he finally decided. He had been especially careful never to use it in the presence of others, but it was looking like he was going to have to make this occasion into one huge exception.

"Ah, here we are," Ai-Jhabour hummed contentedly as the trickle of commoners ahead parted to reveal two ugthanki camels pulling along a medium-sized, rectangular iron box with barred windows. The prison carriage. Once Avis was stuffed into that metal coffin, that was it. Game over.

Avis started to cough. The cough started out as little clearings of the throat, but they got progressively louder and more violent until Avis was sagging in the Qarat captain's grip, nearly heaving his innards out.

The crowd began to cast curious glances at the convulsing boy as he finally retched all over Ai-Jhabour's sandals, their expressions turning to ones of disgust and distaste.

Avis spat the remaining vomit out of his mouth, swearing under his breath as he did so. He _hated_ making himself throw up, but there had been no other way to throw Ai-Jhabour off-balance.

Ai-Jhabour shouted in disgust and revulsion, staggering back as his mind fully registered what the boy had vomited onto his feet. Then he made a fatal mistake; he slightly relinquished his grip on the boy's neck.

The ten-year-old moved faster than lightning. He brought his left foot stamping down onto the Qarat captain's instep, causing Ai-Jhabour to cry out in pain and stagger back even more. He then swiveled on his heel and planted a firm kick into the Qarat captain's abdomen, causing him to double over, his breath taken away from him.

As Ai-Jhabour recovered, Avis threw himself to the ground and wriggled around, managing to fold up his feet and slide his shackled arms around them. When he stood back up, his arms were now in front of him rather than behind his back.

Avis closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was not meditating—after years of practicing to improve his Ability, he no longer needed to submerge himself in meditation—but he was doing something along the same lines as it. He swept through his mind and soul and found the humming energy that was inside of him. He took another deep breath and tapped into that energy, allowing it to fill him, to surround him. He took a third deep breath, concentrating the energy into a single point near his head. He let it build and build until it started to waver, eager to be released.

Avis took one last deep breath. He opened his eyes, locked eyes with Ai-Jhabour, who had gotten back up to his feet, and then looked back down at his chained hands. He hesitated for a second, sheer habit and routine preventing him from displaying his Ability in public. But then self-preservation quickly took over. He focused on the manacles and released his breath and, with it, the pent-up energy.

The air all around him rushed past and was quickly concentrated into a thin sliver of wind which, directed by Avis's mind and breath, cleaved right through the short chain holding the two manacles around his wrists together. The chain snapped, allowing Avis full use of his hands.

The boy did not hesitate. He quickly scooped up his sack of bread, which Ai-Jhabour had dropped, and took off, sprinting as fast as he could through the throng of commoners on the streets, ducking, dodging, and weaving his way through the whole place.

A well of shouts rose from behind as Ai-Jhabour ordered all of the Qaratai in the vicinity after him.

Avis swore under his breath. This was another one of those times where his pale skin worked against him. He could not simply melt into a crowd—he had to vanish, and he had to do it _now_.

Spotting a group of four or five guards sprinting towards him in the opposite direction, Avis knew that the streets were no longer an option. He immediately veered off to the right and ran straight towards a vendor's kiosk. He leaped onto a stand, then onto the roof of the kiosk. From there, he jumped the short distance from the kiosk to the canopy of the store, climbing up the tough fabric to the stone rooftops.

Now that he was on the rooftops, a world of opportunities opened itself to Avis. The ten-year-old took off running again, heading south towards the orphanage. He never slowed his pace, effortlessly flying over the landscape of chimneys, the courtyard openings, the alleyway drops, and the divides between roads. There were dozens of small, thin, wooden beams that connected buildings on each side of every street, put there so that tenants could hang clothes out to dry in the desert sun. Avis utilized them instead as bridges.

The guards, who had little experience traversing the rooftops of Ullek, were hampered by the many obstacles the new environment presented. It was like trying to send cavalry through swamps—the Qaratai dominated the streets, but they did not dominate the rooftops. The rooftops were the domain of the thieves and the free-spirited. Avis fit into both categories.

The pursuing Qaratai's shouts gradually grew fainter and fainter until Avis finally paused to look back. He no longer saw them; they had fallen back so far. He had, quite literally, given them the slip.

Avis grinned to himself, trying to picture what Ai-Jhabour's reaction would be when his dogs returned empty-handed. Unless of course the captain had been personally pursuing him on the rooftops. Then _he_ would return empty-handed as well.

Avis tightened his grip on the burlap sack of bread, which he had miraculously managed to keep ahold of during his flight, and continued south. He stuck to the rooftops, not quite willing to return to the streets yet. He passed a few other men utilizing the rooftops for travel as well. They all gave him friendly nods as they passed him, no doubt reminiscing on how they done similar things when they had been his age.

After a short while, Avis arrived at the street which the orphanage was located on. It was a small, dark, winding road in the ghettos of the southeastern reaches of Ullek. He stopped, turning around and deciding to climb up a small bell tower that jutted up into the sky. There were towers like this scattered all over the city, built mostly for decoration, but they also doubled as living or storage spaces.

Avis reached the pinnacle of the tower, which was about forty or fifty feet off of the ground, and crouched onto his knees, resting one hand on the ground in front of him and the elbow of his other arm on his knee. He closed his eyes and breathed in again, inhaling the mixed scents of the city all around him, feeling its thriving energy. Not for the first time, he wondered if other people felt the same energy of life in the city that he felt every day. He opened his eyes and watched as the sun slowly sank towards the western horizon.

_Red sunset, tonight_… the boy thought to himself, unaware that several days ago, halfway across the continent, a Centralian Warmaster had made the same observation.

Avis took another deep breath and reflected on his day. Jafa had returned, he would be seeing his friends again soon, he had acquired dinner for himself and everyone else at the orphanage, and he had just narrowly escaped what would probably have been a slow death at the hands of a sadistic Qarat guard captain.

Life didn't get any better than this.


	3. Chapter 3: The Cleric

Chapter Three: The Cleric

Father Jerrod gave a satisfied grunt as the marrentill plant he was tugging on finally came loose, sliding free from the iron grip the earth had previously sported over it.

The thick, gnarly roots of the plant made an excellent stew, and Jerrod intended to make the most of them, but the Cleric's focus was on the leaves of the plant, which were an integral ingredient to a powerful potion which seemed to cure all poison.

It was a gray day. That was not very surprising to the Cleric, though; it rained a lot in the Virid Swamp. As such, heavy cloud-cover was not a rare occurrence. In fact, Jerrod sometimes had trouble remembering how long it had been since the sun had shown itself in these parts.

The Virid Swamp formed a large, outlying peninsula from the Centralian mainland, jutting out into the ocean. It was bordered by the River Lum to the east, the Gulf of Ankhat to the southeast, and the Great Southern Ocean to the south and west. To the north was a tiny village called Lumbridge, and the rest of Centralia.

Jerrod placed the marrentill plant into his basket, along with the three others that he had picked. He then picked his load up and walked off into the swamp. He kept to the dry routes for the majority of the walk, but he soon came to a large, murky lake that was covered with algae and lily pads. A medium-sized islet sat in the center of the lake. It was a few hundred yards long and wide and had several clumps of trees and plantlife dotting its surface. There was a garden lining one of the ends; that was where Jerrod grew a portion of his food. In the middle of the islet was his hut, where he had lived for the past ten years.

The Cleric started to murmur under his breath, tapping into the elemental energy of water. As he strode into the water, the surface of the patch of water he was on top of froze over, and his foot came down onto solid ice. He took another step, and more of the surface froze over. This cycle repeated until Father Jerrod had reached his islet. The moment he stepped onto dry land, he stopped murmuring and the path of ice quickly melted back into the water.

-_Welcome back, Cleric-_

Father Jerrod felt the words in his mind as a series of mental projections, feelings, and images, rather than actually hearing or understanding them as words. It had been a while since he had last heard that voice, but he was glad to have the company.

A small mote of light emerged from inside of the hut, hovering across the ground towards the Cleric. It grew in size until it was about as big as a small animal, though it kept its general shape. It was no clearly defined shape at any point in time; the light out of which the creature was composed was always moving. There was a core brilliance of golden white light, with motes and rays of blue sparkling in and out of existence around the nexus, like moths around a lantern.

"And you as well, Helios," Father Jerrod replied. He murmured under his breath again and produced a mote of light from the tip of his fingers. Making pure light was hard to do for any mage, as it was not a direct manifestation of any of the four elements. Jerrod managed through a very complex combination of fire, air, and water—using trace amounts of the moisture in the air to bend and refract ambient daylight, the Anima Mundi in the air to contain the resulting brilliance so that it did not disperse, and a nearly nonexistent amount of fire, combined with his own inner life energy, to produce the light. The result was, if done properly, a small orb of brilliant golden light.

This form of magic was extremely difficult to perform—most were unable to practice it—but Jerrod had spent enough time in the swamp to perfect the skill. The old Cleric also had many years of experience on his side.

The light creature produced a luminescent orb of its own and touched it to Jerrod's. For a brief instant, the Saradominist Cleric was inside of the light creature's mind. For an infinitesimal moment, the light creature's thoughts and emotions, and those of the Cleric, were in perfect harmony. They knew and understood everything about each other; neither held any secrets from the other.

Then, as quick as it had begun, the moment of mental intimacy was over, leaving Jerrod with a somewhat empty feeling in his mind, but that, too, quickly passed. The Sharing of life energy was pretty much the light creatures' equivalent of a handshake.

The light creatures were universally called 'Preluceans' by the other races of Gielinor, and, for the most part, they seemed to have accepted that name. Jerrod had known Helios ever since he had first come to the Virid Swamp, ten years ago, after he had been ousted from Entrana. The Prelucean's name was not really Helios, obviously; its real name was not comprehensible to a human. It was not a word, nor was it a simple feeling…its name was its very essence, and it was displayed and comprehended by other Preluceans in ways that the other races of Gielinor could never hope to understand. Normal communication through words, sounds, and gestures—language, grammar, syntax—were just as alien to the Preluceans as their inter-planar light was to humans, dwarves, elves, and all the rest.

Jerrod simply called his Prelucean friend by the name 'Helios,' and the light creature seemed to enjoy its moniker, so it stuck. The Cleric had refused to call Helios 'light creature' for the rest of his life.

"How have you been lately, old friend?" Father Jerrod asked the Prelucean as he ducked into his hut.

-_Amicable_-

"Well, that's good…" Jerrod murmured, pausing to rummage through one of his cabinets. He pulled out a mortar and pestle and set them down onto a countertop. "Considering everything you and your brethren have been through these past few millennia, that's very good."

The Preluceans were an incredibly endangered species. The turmoil of the beginning of the God Wars, occurring right after Zamorak's successful rebellion against the Empty Lord Zaros, had seen the destruction of all of the Prelucean cities, which had been located in the elven lands to the immediate west of the White Wolf Mountains. The light creatures were now painfully sparse in number, though most of them had migrated to southern Centralia, where war was least likely to hurt them again.

Father Jerrod knew that Helios was visiting for a reason. The light creature liked the Cleric a lot, but Jerrod could tell that it had a reason for being here.

Time to do some digging.

"What brings you around these parts, old friend?" Jerrod broke the ice, posing the question directly to Helios.

-_As much as free will played a role in my coming here, I was also sent_-

The Cleric cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. "Sent?"

-_On an errand_-

"An errand."

-_Yes_-

"What is the nature of this errand?"

-_The Balance is shifting_-

"The what?" Jerrod asked, not understanding the Prelucean's statement.

-_The Balance_- Helios repeated itself.

"Clarify: what is 'the Balance'?" Father Jerrod asked, changing tack in his questioning. Communicating with Preluceans would probably make a lesser man turn to alcoholism, but Jerrod had gotten the swing of it. He was a linguist, being fluent in Arrish—the desert language—and competent in the language of the elves. Speaking with a Prelucean did not require any particular lingual proficiency, but it did require patience and a proper wording.

-_The Balance_- Helios explained in his bizarre form of thought-speak, -_is the equilibrium of this world. The stability of the Anima Mundi. The delicate balance of good and evil, of order and chaos, of darkness and light; once manifested in this world by the Gods Zaros and Armadyl, now manifested by the God Zamorak and your God Saradomin-_

"Zamorak…" Jerrod murmured as he rummaged through a cabinet for a mortar and pestle. He found one and set it down on one of the countertops. "After we defeated his forces at the River Salve, six hundred years ago, he's been keeping to his strongholds in the Deep Wilderness…you're saying that he is finally emerging?"

-_I know not for certain_-

"Tell me what you _do_ know."

-_I know that the Balance is shifting_-

"And what does that entail?" Jerrod pressed further. As he spoke, he dropped a marrentill leaf into the mortar and pestle and began to grind it up along with fragments of unicorn horn, which the Cleric had gathered the week before.

-_The Balance has been askew as of late, tipped well into Saradomin's favor. This will not last. The Balance is being righted once more-_

If that did not confirm Father Jerrod's old fears, nothing did. He gave a final nod. "Zamorak is definitely returning, then…" the Cleric muttered, pausing to inspect the quality of the marrentill and unicorn's horn. Satisfied that they were sufficiently ground up, he took the mortar and scraped its contents out into an empty vial. "He's definitely coming back. Just like I've been saying to the old bastards back on Entrana…of course, they wouldn't listen…"

-_You have known this would happen?_- Helios asked haltingly, its surrounding blue motes of light growing slightly brighter and moving around its central brilliance a bit faster. It was agitated.

"Yes," Jerrod nodded, "though not in the way you believe. I cannot see the future…I just have common sense…more than the other monks had, or still have…"

-_He sent me to tell you that he needs you once more_- Helios broke in, finally laying all of its cards out on the table.

"Who sent you?" the Cleric asked, unsure if he had missed a name.

-_He did-_

"And who is 'he'?"

-_You already know the answer to that question-_

"But…why would _he_ need me? I'm an exile, a vagrant. I'm not a Priori any longer," Jerrod muttered. He turned back to face Helios and began to explain his reason for being in the swamp. "I've always feared that Zamorak would return. Everyone knows how his foul armies were defeated at the River Salve, six hundred years ago…but everyone thinks that Zamorak _himself_ was defeated as well. I knew that he was not, that he was just rebuilding, consolidating his remaining strength…waiting for us to drop our guard."

-_This sounds logical of the Destroyer_- Helios agreed.

Jerrod hooted with laughter. "Logic…heh, now _there's_ a good one. You should tell that one to the Priori of the Church sometime, it'll give 'em all a good laugh."

-_Your superiors do not know what logic is?_- Helios sparkled purple, radiating confusion.

"Not even if it slapped 'em across the face," Jerrod chuckled in his southern Centralian drawl.

Helios's pulsing froze for a second as the light creature tried to interpret the Cleric's sarcasm, but it gave up after a few moments. Human witticisms were too alien for it to comprehend.

"What you have to understand," the Cleric continued, "is that I tried to convince the other Priori that Zamorak was going to return, but they would not listen…" The Cleric chuckled bitterly as he recalled his downfall, "They excommunicated me and declared me a heretic. I had to leave Entrana…I've been in this swamp ever since…so you can understand why I'm skeptical of your claim that _he_ has a use for me. If he truly valued me, he would have intervened and stopped the Priori from exiling me."

Helios remained silent for a few more seconds before it composed an adequate reply. –_I cannot speak on behalf of him, Cleric. That will be for you to discuss with him personally_-

"He's coming _here?_" Father Jerrod sounded surprised, nearly dropping the mortar and pestle he was holding. He caught the bowl before it slipped from his grasp and carefully set it back into its cupboard.

-_Yes_- Helios replied, punctual as ever.

Jerrod stood rock-still for a moment, then gave an indifferent grunt and shrug. "The old man and I will have quite a bit of catching up to do."

The Cleric picked up the flask of water, marrentill, and ground unicorn horn, and ducked back outside. Helios hovered out the doorway behind Jerrod, keeping close to its friend. Jerrod strode across his islet to the edge of the lake and dipped the flask into the water, filling it up. The water mixed with the ground marrentill and unicorn's horn, turning a shade of murky green.

The Cleric thrust a hand into his pocket and fished around until his fingers grasped what he was seeking; a fire runestone which would allow him to cast fire magic. He grasped the runestone and started murmuring again; weaving the enchantments necessary to make the potion he was composing. The runestone began to flow and small flames engulfed the base of the flask, heating it. The enchantments which he was weaving infused themselves into the flames and the water.

The flask's contents started to bubble and shine, growing brighter and brighter until Jerrod was unable to look directly at it. The Cleric squinted, not breaking eye contact with the flask, until his enchantments were complete. Once he stopped murmuring them, the light vanished. The flask now contained a bright green fluid that seemed to move on its own.

-_I am curious; what have you just done?_- the Prelucean asked.

"A simple trick, old as the hills…older, actually," the Cleric replied. "I used activated fire with the runestone and the enchantments, and used them to fuse the marrentill and the unicorn's horn together at an alchemical level. It is now an elixir that can cure any known poison."

-_Fascinating… My species never had any magical ability, but that does not mean that we are uninterested by its intricacies_-

"Yeah, it certainly has its uses," the Cleric grunted. "Come; let us return to the hut."

Helios faithfully followed the Cleric as he straightened up from the lakewater and headed back across the greens to his hut. The Prelucean was truly happy to see the Cleric again. The light creature had used to spend every day with the eccentric, embittered old man, but lately it had been unable to remain in the Virid Swamp for too long. Other Preluceans had been making the pilgrimage across the continent to southern Centralia, and they required assistance, otherwise they would be lost.

More and more Preluceans had been fleeing the west. The light creatures were closely attuned to the Anima Mundi—the life energy of the world, found in all living things—and were all able to sense the shift in its Balance. They knew that something bad was coming, and they were getting the hell out.

"So, did the old man tell you _when_ exactly he was going to drop by?" Jerrod asked as he walked up to his hut's door, ducking to step inside. "If he's got some ultra-secret divine task for me, I want to know what it is; and the sooner, the better."

-_How about you ask him yourself, right now_-

Helios spoke right as Jerrod stepped completely into his hut. The Cleric took an automatic step towards his countertop, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the man who had appeared from nowhere and nothing, sitting at his table.

Sitting at the table was an old man who appeared to be in his late sixties or seventies. He was dressed in simple, worn blue robes, cinched around his waist with a black rope. The top of his head was shiny and bald, but he had thick gray-white hair around the fringes and down his neck in a gray mane that was slightly longer than shoulder length. His hair also extended down past his ears and into a full, somewhat bushy beard that covered his chin and everything else under his nose. He had somewhat craggy features, a lined face, and sharp, electric-blue eyes. His eyes seemed to gaze right through anything they looked at. They were intense eyes, but at the same time they had a slight twinkle in them. They were not cold eyes.

"It really _is_ you…" Jerrod grunted, strolling over to the table and grabbing a chair, sitting down opposite the old man. "Helios wasn't lying after all. We have some talking to do."

"Faithful servant," Saradomin smiled, displaying his perfect white teeth, "I have a task for you."


	4. Chapter 4: Politics

Chapter Four: Politics

_**Athellenas**_

Warmaster Athellenas had never liked the city. He had spent the majority of his early childhood on a farm in the Far Reaches—he was accustomed to nature, to the wild, to the wide-open spaces that only the wilderness of the country had to offer. As he and his surviving men trotted up one of the main roads that honeycombed Centralia and into the capital city of Tethys, the Warmaster kept on glancing around at the dirty cobbled streets, the beggars lining the sidewalks, the absence of green plantlife, and was reminded why he disliked the city.

The throngs of citizens crowding the streets parted and made way for Athellenas and Sir Derren, the Warmaster's most trusted subordinate. Athellenas ordered the cavalrymen who had accompanied him on the ill-fated patrol throughout northern Centralia back to their barracks, while he and Sir Derren continued on towards the palace.

"Looking forward to facing the old bores in the Forum?" Sir Derren chuckled as he and the Warmaster reached the large central square and started to trot across. The palace was a small distance away from the other side.

"Mm-hm," the graying Warmaster grunted. "Like I look forward to taking an arrow in my testicle."

Sir Derren chuckled briefly, before he remembered something he had learned from the Warmaster during his time serving under the older man. "Didn't that already happen to you when you defended Avarrocka from the anarchists?"

"Mm-hm," Athellenas grunted again, wincing as the memory of the wound came back to him. "You think I was joking?"

Sir Derren grinned, displaying his teeth. "Absolutely."

Athellenas gave a low chuckle. He returned his attention to the road ahead and reigned in Onyx before the dappled white and gray steed wandered into a nearby flower garden. The Palace came into view as the two mounted soldiers headed away from the square.

The Palace was less of an actual palace and more of a walled-off compound in which the King resided and ruled from. The Forum also convened in the palace compound when necessary, though the consuls of the Forum lived in the city outside. The Palace always had its own elite force of soldiers defending it, known universally as the Old Guard. If the city were ever attacked, the Old Guard would be the last line of defense standing between the King and the enemy.

Of course, no enemy would ever make it that far into Centralia as a kingdom, let alone the center of its capital.

Warmaster Athellenas trotted up the cobbled path to the entrance gate leading into the royal compound. The two sentries on top of the gate squinted to get a better look at the Warmaster, but Athellenas removed his helm so that they would have no doubts.

The sentries, satisfied that there was no trouble, allowed the Warmaster to pass without incident. The portcullis was drawn up by an unseen mechanism within the gate itself, and Athellenas and Sir Derren were able to ride through. Once they were clear of the gate, the portcullis came sliding back down to its former position.

The interior of the royal compound was beautiful, by any standards. Trimmed grass and plants made up the majority of the earth, crisscrossed by the stone paths that linked each building in the compound to all the others. Several kinds of trees—oaks, mahoganies, yellowwoods, pines—dotted the place as well. In the back of the compound was the Royal Palace; pretty much a keep or a small citadel—that was where the King and his staff resided, along with the Old Guard.

There were also two barracks, where the Old Guard kept their weapons and gear. There were several other buildings, including a smokehouse, a standalone kitchen, and a greenhouse. The second-largest building, however, was located just to the right of the centre of the compound. It was a plain marble hemisphere, arcing up from the ground in a simple, graceful curve. This was the Forum, where the consuls of the Forum formally convened. Today, that building was going to be full.

"Sir Derren, this report is for me to deliver, and me alone," Athellenas told his subordinate. "You are free to wander the compound, if you wish."

"I would much rather accompany you," Sir Derren started to protest, but the Warmaster stopped him.

"I know you would…" Athellenas chuckled. "Believe me; I'm doing you a favor…the longer you stay out of the filthy mire of politics, the better. Enjoy the simple life of knowing your enemy and having the ability to end him with your sword…in future years, you will miss it dearly. For now, the consuls are my problem to deal with."

"As you wish," Sir Derren bowed his head, submitting to his superior. Though he sounded polite and neutral, Athellenas knew that the young knight was disappointed and dissatisfied.

The Warmaster shrugged. The young knight would have his chance to deal with the Forum when _he_ became an old Warmaster…until then, he would simply have to suck it up. It was too bad; when he was finally able to deal with the Forum himself, he would not want to, either. It was funny, the way the universe reversed like that.

Sir Derren took his leave, trotting off towards a few Old Guardsmen who had congregated near one of their barracks. As the young knight left, Athellenas continued on towards the Forum dome. Onyx took him right up to the entrance before stopping. The steed snuffled, knowing that he had reached his destination. Athellenas dismounted. He circled around to Onyx's front and gave his horse an affectionate ruffle under his chin, then clapped him on the neck and turned, heading straight into the entrance of the Forum. He did not bother securing Onyx to a tree or anything else; the horse would come when he called him.

Athellenas walked down the short hallway that led from the entrance of the Forum to the actual council chamber. There were two Old Guardsmen standing watch on either side of the doors at the other end of the hall. They stepped aside for Athellenas as he approached.

"Good luck, sir," one of the soldiers murmured to Athellenas under his breath.

Athellenas did not reply. He didn't need to. He took a deep breath, and placed a firm hand on the doors to the chamber, pushing it open and striding inside.

The inside of the Forum was, unsurprisingly, chaotic. Consuls argued with one another across the room, some even throwing papers, quills, or inkpots. Lord Fernando, the Forum Praetor and King Osman's majordomo, tried in vain to keep order while the King himself sat in his booth, looking like he was contemplating suicide.

Athellenas waited patiently in the center of the room, looking up at the consuls in the tiers surrounding him. This wasn't his first visit to the Forum, but it was his first time experiencing firsthand how violent the conventions could become when dealing with sensitive topics.

Sitting next to the King was another tall, handsome, winged man, with a small silver circlet set atop his head. Two magnificent turquoise wings were clearly visible behind his back, but he had respectfully folded them while indoors. Athellenas recognized him as Laertes, the ambassador of the Iceyene, the race of winged men and women who inhabited the Hallowlands across the River Salve to the east. The Iceyene were fellow Saradominists and, therefore, allies of Centralia.

That at least told the Warmaster that someone in the Forum had known that Athellenas's report was going to be serious.

Lord Fernando took notice of the Warmaster standing near the entrance. He took a deep breath and thundered, "_Quiet down, you blithering imbeciles! He is here!_" in the most tremendous bellow he could muster.

The effect was immediate. Whether it was the fact that Athellenas had arrived, or if it was the fact that Lord Fernando had openly insulted every one of them, the consuls all fell silent.

"Ah, Warmaster Athellenas, welcome," one of the consuls muttered, "What trouble have you caused us now?"

"Mind your tongue, Earis," Lord Fernando warned the bold consul who had spoken out.

Athellenas ignored the jab and strode into the center of the chamber. He faced the King and lowered himself down to a knee, bowing his head in respect for his monarch.

"Rise, Warmaster," King Osman brought his mind back to the here and now to address his general. Osman had been King of Centralia for only three years, after the sudden death of his father. The King was only eighteen years old, but he already seemed like an old man, with the threat of constant war looming over him and his people.

"My liege," Athellenas bowed once more to King Osman, keeping to formal tradition. He had a friendlier relationship with the ruler of Centralia outside of the Forum, but that could not be expressed _inside_ of the Forum. Inside of the Forum, everyone was neutral. Or at least, they were supposed to be.

"Warmaster Athellenas, we received a messenger eagle from you five days ago while you were out on patrol," Lord Fernando began to speak, "In the message, you informed us that you were riding hard for Tethys to personally give your report. As such, the Forum has convened to hear your account of what you found at Ephyrn. You are aware that the convention of the Forum is only done in such a manner in times of emergency, are you not?"

"I am," Athellenas replied, keeping his answers short and simple.

"Then you are also aware that, if your report is found to be wasting the Forum's time, sanctions can be taken against you?" Lord Fernando asked next. The Praetor looked as if he was swallowing a sour fruit as he spoke; he really did not want to ask that question, but he was required to.

"I am," Athellenas repeated himself.

"Then, with the King's permission, you may give us your report."

King Osman leaned forward, resting his arms on the banister in front of him, peering down at the Warmaster. He gave a short, curt nod.

"Gentlemen, Consuls of the Forum," Athellenas began, "I regret to inform you that the town of Ephyrn is no more."

"What do you mean, 'no more'?" Consul Earis cocked an eyebrow. "Have your soldiers forgotten how to navigate?"

Again, Athellenas ignored the jab. He knew of Earis—the consul who had the disdain every politician had for the army, only his disdain was significantly greater than the norm. The Warmaster continued with his report. "The whole town was razed to the ground. Every building was burned to charcoal. The people had been…" Athellenas broke off for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, immersing himself once more in the memories of what he and his scouts had found at Ephyrn. "The people had all been slaughtered, all piled up in a huge mound in the center of town, like some sort of…_decoration_," the Warmaster spat the word like it was a curse.

"Everyone was dead? No survivors?" Lord Fernando asked for clarification.

"That is correct," Athellenas nodded.

"You were ordered to safeguard that town, and you are now telling this council that you were too slow to help the innocent villagers there?" Consul Earis asked in his smooth, honeyed tones, his eyebrow calmly sliding up his forehead a fraction. "If this is the level of security and protection that you and your soldiers are capable of providing this kingdom-"

That was a jab that Athellenas could not brush off. "All due respect, _consul_, but I was never ordered to safeguard Ephyrn. I was merely ordered to investigate the town, and these orders were sent to me an entire week after contact with Ehpyrn was lost. If anything, the fate of Ephyrn is _your_ fault for not acting sooner than you did."

That provoked a clamor of protest from the consuls, who viewed Athellenas's backtalk as a personal insult to their reputations as politicians. Remarks of "How dare you?!" and "Insolent brute!" were among the more common exclamations, though there were a few choicer insults thrown into the fray as well.

"_Silence!_" the shout had come from King Osman himself, who had stood from his seat, gripping the banister in front of him. The room immediately plunged into silence, and the consuls all sank back into their seats. "Warmaster Athellenas, you will mind your tongue when addressing this council," the King said to the Warmaster, as required, but he then turned to the rest of the room and said, "As for you all; I will give the Warmaster permission to personally eject the next consul who speaks out of turn."

The King named no names as he spoke, but his gaze was fixed on Earis. If the outspoken consul noticed this, he did a good job of concealing it. His expression did not falter.

"You may continue with your report, Warmaster," Lord Fernando gave Athellenas a nod.

"After securing the square, where we found the villagers," Athellenas continued, "We encountered a medium-sized force of orks. They had a shaman with them, who used its foul magicks to veil the monsters from our eyes until we were upon them. They ambushed us, and I lost several men to them. We managed to kill them all, however. There was a demon there as well-"

"A demon?" Lord Fernando interrupted, surprise evident in his voice. "An actual _demon?_"

"A weak demon, but a demon nonetheless," Athellenas confirmed. "I personally slew the beast. The point is that these orks were not acting on their own. They all wore these-" Athellenas reached behind his back and grabbed the battered metal helm that had been hanging off the back of his armor. He had taken it from the corpse of one of the ork attackers in Ephyrn.

The Warmaster tossed the helmet down onto the table in front of him. All of the consuls leaned forward to observe the helm. It was made of common steel, but the most noticeable feature was the rough symbol engraved on the helm's fore. It was a black and red pair of horns, both of them bent at angles and meeting in the center, forming a rough '_W_' shape.

The unholy symbol of Zamorak.

"All of the orks we found at Ephyrn wore these. They all bore the foul symbol of Zamorak, branded onto their flesh as well as their armor," Athellenas recounted. "The Dark God is responsible for this…this slaughter."

"Outrageous; the Dark One has been banished to the Deep Wilderness. He has not the strength to emerge," Consul Earis interrupted.

Now it was Athellenas's turn to cock an eyebrow. "A town full of slain Centralians begs to differ," the Warmaster countered.

"Such speak of the Dark One's return has been decreed as heresy by the Church of Saradomin," Earis persisted, not relenting one bit. "Warmaster Athellenas; you waste our time with your drivel, you fail to protect one of our villages from anarchists, and now you have the gall to suggest that the old war is starting up once more. The Church will not stand for-"

"The Church can go up in smoke, for all I care," Athellenas declared, finally fed up with all of the Forum's sidetracking and nitpicking. "This is the Forum of Centralia, not the Church of Saradomin. What the Church says is illegal has no sway here, am I correct? This still _is_ the Kingdom of Centralia, not the Church, am I correct? We do still follow the King and not the Priori, am I correct?"

"Why—why---why, you _insolent_-" Earis sputtered furiously, but the words chocked up and did not flow, getting caught somewhere in the enraged consul's throat.

"Consuls!" Athellenas continued, "Whether you choose to see it or not, Zamorak is returning! Even now, he assails our villages, and we do nothing! We must mobilize our army and prepare for an invasion. If we do not do this _now_, then we will be-"

"This council has had quite enough of your warmongering, Warmaster!" Consul Earis interrupted Athellenas, backed up by several murmurs of assent and agreement from his peers.

"_Warmongering!?_" Athellenas roared in response, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Consul Earis pressed on, moving in for the kill. "If this council agrees, I would move to call a vote of no-confidence in-"

"_Order!_" Lord Fernando bellowed, silencing the consuls before they could start ranting. "That will be quite enough, from all of you! Warmaster Athellenas, this council has heard your report and will presently deliberate any subsequent action that we shall take based upon it. I move for a recess and a reconvention to begin at noontime, tomorrow. All in favor?"

The thirty-odd consuls all raised their hands and collectively replied, "_Aye!_"

"This Convention is hereby temporarily adjourned. When you all return, I expect you to keep your tongues on tight leashes. Anymore outbursts like the one I have just witnessed, and I will have you thrown out on your backsides! Now get out of my sight," Lord Fernando concluded. The Praetor turned on his heel, his long robes flowing behind him as he strode from the room.

The King and the Iceyene ambassador exited the room as well from the back passageway. The consuls all rose and filed their way out the front entrance. Earis gave Athellenas a dirty glare as he brushed past.

The Warmaster ignored the consul and turned around. He strode off towards the door and pushed his way outside, knocking one or two consuls aside who did not clear out of his way, not caring when they fell to the ground.

Athellenas made his way across the greens towards the Citadel, muttering under his breath, opening and closing his hands as he tried to control the red-hot fury that was roiling deep inside of him.

The door guards recognized the Warmaster, and then saw that he was not a normal Warmaster; he was an extremely _angry_ Warmaster. They saluted quickly and stepped to the side. "Try not to break anything, sir, or we'll have to remove you," one of the Old Guardsmen warned the aging Warmaster.

Athellenas brushed his way past, stepping into the palace. He walked straight across the front hall and through the double doors at the other end of the room, which led straight into the throne room.

The throne at the far end was empty right now, as King Osman was still on his way, but normally this is where he would sit in order to have an audience to anyone with matters requiring royal attention.

Athellenas swore under his breath and resorted to pacing up and down the length of the room, forcing his emotions back down where they belonged. He took several deep breaths and managed to calm himself down. His anger would not help him when he spoke with the King. Even so, his rage was still present enough to make his arms quiver and his eye twitch occasionally, and that was beyond his control.

"You slammed the door on the consul pretty hard, there, Athellenas."

Athellenas turned on his heel to see King Osman pushing his way through the doors and into the throne room. It was the King who had spoken. The Warmaster began to sink to a knee to properly greet the King, but Osman waved a dismissive hand.

"You can dispense with the formalities, Athellenas," King Osman sighed. "I've known you too long for that. Come; let us retire to my study."

Athellenas bowed his head and followed the King behind his throne and into the room beyond. Within was a small room filled with books and scrolls, as well as a simplee mahongany desk situated in the center. The King sat behind the desk, and he invited Athellenas to do the same.

Athellenas declined, preferring instead to stand.

"Athellenas…" Osman sighed, gingerly removing his crown and rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. "I'm not a fool, despite what others may think. What the consuls were saying to you in that room was wrong…there's no arguing that fact. But they're politicians; that's what they do best, askew as that concept may be. Your harsh words in retaliation to theirs were justified, yes…but they certainly did not help your cause."

"I am aware of that, Sire," Athellenas replied.

King Osman let out another sigh, though this one was interspersed with a mirthless chuckle. "You've never played the politicians' games, Warmaster. Not when my father ruled these lands before me, and still not now…either you are extremely honorable, or extremely stubborn and foolish…perhaps they are one and the same, in this case. Regardless…you are not making this easy for anyone, dishing it out to the consuls like you just did."

"So I am supposed to stand idle and watch those puppets insult and mock the warriors that protect and defend this land without consequence or reprimand?"

"If that is what it takes for them to see the light, and keep _you_ out of trouble, then yes. You are too valuable for me to lose."

Athellenas gave his monarch a wan smile, his face resigned. "Sire, I would suggest that we simply agree to disagree. I will lead the Army, you will lead a nation, and _they_ will somehow keep it running. Let us leave it at that and lay this issue to rest."

There was a brief creaking sound from behind as Lord Fernando stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind him. The King's majordomo bowed his head to King Osman before straightening up and offering a hand to Athellenas. The Warmaster grasped it and gave it a firm shake, which Fernando reciprocated.

"I owe you an apology, Warmaster, for my words to you back in that hellhole," Lord Fernando said to Athellenas in apology. "Much as I did not wish to utter them, they were a part of a protocol that had to be followed…I meant nothing personally against you by them."

"Once again, think nothing of it," Athellenas shrugged. "You were just doing your job, and doing it quite well. Whatever the consuls may believe and say, those monsters I encountered at Ephyrn _were_ working under Zamorak…I know the Dark God's influence when I see it. You must believe me when I tell you that evil is spreading from the Wilderness once more."

"Our hands are tied on the issue," Lord Fernando replied. "We have tried securing a Declaration of War several times in the past. Evidence of Zamorak's presence has been more often and obvious than you know, Warmaster. The Church, however, obstinately refuses to acknowledge the Dark One's return. They view it as blasphemy to even speak his name, let alone say that he is returning."

"Without the Church's approval, the Forum will not cast a Declaration of War," King Osman finished.

"Is there no way to begin mobilization of our armies _without_ the approval of the Forum?" Athellenas asked.

"No," Lord Fernando shook his head for a second, then quickly changed his mind and turned his headshake into a shrug. "Well, there is _one_ way…we can bypass the Forum if the enemy actually invades us. Of course, a mobilization that late in the game would not be conducive to coordinating a solid defense _against_ said invasion…"

"What of Ephyrn? What of what happened there? Will that not be sufficient to sway their minds?" Athellenas asked next, bringing up the thought that had been nagging at the back of his mind since he had started the conversation with his superiors.

"I think…" King Osman spoke slowly, as if he chose and examined each individual word in his mind before actually saying it. "I think that the consuls will be more inclined to pay heed to your retaliatory insults leveled at Consul Earis instead of your report."

"That is outrageous-_!_"

"I never said it wasn't," King Osman interrupted, holding up a hand and silencing the angry Warmaster. "This is politics. It is a bunch of ungrateful degenerates trying to get the most they can out of any situation, even a potential Zamorackian invasion. You have to know how to deal with them to get them to-"

"I _do_ know how to deal with them," Athellenas growled, "Throw them into the middle of a battle against orks, werewolves, and demons, and see how well _they_ fare."

That provoked an amused chuckle from both the King and the Forum Praetor. "That would be quite a sight to see," Lord Fernando admitted, "seeing those braggarts waving their papers and throwing their inkpots at the monsters' faces…" his voice trailed off as he finished the thought, savoring the thought of the consuls being torn apart by Zamorak's filth.

"Amusing, yes," King Osman agreed, "But it does not further our cause."

"_What_ cause?" Athellenas muttered bitterly. "The only thing I seem to be able to do here is preach to a deaf choir. Those bloody cunts we have filling the seats in the Forum twiddle and piss their time and power away…and meanwhile, Zamorak gathers his strength up north, and we do _nothing_. He massacres an entire town, and we do _nothing_. When he crosses the border, he will not face the strongest nation in Gielinor. He will face a weakened country without a prepared army, without a-"

"Peace, Warmaster, peace," King Osman held up his hand, quieting Athellenas down. The Warmaster obliged the King and fell silent.

The Warmaster gazed into the King's haggard face. Osman was a very handsome man, there was no denying that, but the hardships of being King in a time of strife had taken their toll on him. With attacks on the borders of Centralia by anarchists, rebels, and monsters from the far parts of the world on the rise, his attention had been required time and time again to address the matters. The simple solution would be to mobilize the Centralian Army, but he was prevented from doing that by the Forum and, indirectly, the damned Church of Saradomin.

The King was barely even out of his adolescence yet. He had become King three years ago, when he was only fifteen years old. Being the ruler of the most powerful Kingdom in Gielinor was too much of a burden for someone his age…but he bore it nonetheless, and he did so without complaint. Lord Fernando, who had served Osman's father, helped the young King along in any way he could. Had it not been for the majordomo, the King would probably have succumbed to the strain of his position long ago.

Warmaster Athellenas gave the King his complete obedience, if only because he knew that the King had too much on his plate to deal with the dissatisfactions of a jaded old soldier. When Osman interrupted him and asked him to be silent mid-rant, the Warmaster obeyed without a second thought.

"I cannot implement a full mobilization yet," King Osman reiterated, changing tack. "Warmaster, I promise you that I will do my utmost to assemble our entire army. I just need more time, or an opportunity to force the Forum's hand… I believe you wholeheartedly when you say that Zamorak is planning to strike against us. I look at what goes on in the Forum, and the consuls' inaction, at the Church's near-fanatical refusal to see and accept the truth… I look at all of these things, and I fear, I truly _fear_ for the future of our kingdom."

"If the Dark God _does_ invade, then damn the Forum," Athellenas declared. "I swear upon everything I hold dear that I will not allow evil and chaos to consume this land, and no politician or church will stand in my way."

"Your zeal is laudable, Warmaster," the King gave a weak smile, which Athellenas recognized as a subtle show of great gratitude from the monarch. "I do not doubt your promise for a second. You have always been a constant for me, and I will not forget it…" the King sighed and changed the subject, bringing the conversation back to the original point. "The Forum will reconvene tomorrow, and we shall continue our deliberations then."

"Joy and rapture," Athellenas grunted.

The King looked as if he wanted to say something more, but he was reluctant to speak. Finally, his verbal impulse won over his silence, and he said, "Warmaster, I should not be telling you this now, but I _do_ have a job for you, a job that may break my stalemate with the Forum, and one that may bring the truth of Zamorak's return to the light."

"Oh?" Athellenas raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"I have been receiving troubling news from the Menaphites in the desert to the southeast…_very_ troubling news…" King Osman murmured. He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk for a moment, and then looked right into Athellenas's eyes. "How do you feel about commanding an army in the desert?"


	5. Chapter 5: Task from a God

Chapter Five: Task from a God

**_Jerrod_**

Father Jerrod's laughter filled the entire hut. Had the walls been metallic or stone, the laughter would have reverberated. The wooden walls only absorbed the Cleric's voice, however, but the effect was still the same.

The Cleric was sitting at the table in the center of his hut, reclined in his chair, his roaring laughter now quieting to a hearty chuckle. Sitting opposite the exiled Cleric was a thin, old, bearded man, swathed in simple blue robes. Though he seemed like a simple old geezer, the old man was anything but. He seemed to radiate energy--scratch that; he _did_ radiate energy--and his presence felt like a humming, electrifying sensation in the air. He was Saradomin, the God of Order and Light, and one of the two High Gods of Gielinor—the other being Zamorak, his polar opposite.

Saradomin's brow furrowed in a hesitant frown. He was older than anyone could possibly imagine, having seen and done much in Gielinor over the past eon or two, and yet even _he_ did not know why Father Jerrod was laughing. Gods were incredibly powerful, wise, primordial beings, but they were not omniscient.

"Pardon my ignorance of the inner workings of your mind," Saradomin apologized, "but what is it that you find so amusing?"

"The…the whole…" Father Jerrod managed to sputter before devolving into another bout of uproarious, almost crazed laughter. After another few seconds he managed to calm himself down, settling into a frosty silence. The spontaneous laughter was gone now, replaced with a look of bitter reproach. "Do you have any idea how long I've spent in this swamp?"

"Nearly eleven years," Saradomin replied. The God's frown vanished, as he now knew what the old Cleric was driving at.

"Eleven years…" Jerrod echoed, his voice briefly trailing off into a murmur. "I know that you know _why_ I have been here all this time."

"We have not spoken since you were still on Entrana," Saradomin explained.

"Oh, believe me, I know," Father Jerrod grunted, sitting back up in his chair, his back ramrod-straight. "You let the other Priori, those high-nosed, tight-assed bastards in blue and white—you let them excommunicate and exile me from Entrana, even though I was speaking the truth. You _know_ that it was the truth I was speaking, not heresy, and you let them do away with me anyway. You could imagine why I'm not exactly what you would call 'overjoyed' to see you again."

Saradomin's mouth curved in a light smile. The God had expected his most devout follower to react in this way. If anyone had earned the right to vent to him, though, it was the old Cleric. Saradomin had his reasons for allowing him to be stripped of his Priori status and exiled from Entrana, but the cold, hard fact remained that Jerrod's life had been effectively ruined.

Or so the Cleric thought.

"That's all you have to say? You're just going to smile?" the old Cleric asked, his voice still calm and apathetic, despite the subtle change in tone. "Well you can go right on ahead and do that; I know you'll just come out and tell me some earth-shattering revelation that made all my losses worth it… I'm not bitter about being ousted from the Priori, or even about being booted from Entrana; I've moved past that…this swamp is a very peaceful place…none of the bustling frenzy of Entrana to bother me here…" Father Jerrod cleared his throat and returned his gaze to Saradomin. When he continued to speak, his voice hardened and became noticeably icier. "What I have never been able to move past, however, is the fact that you did nothing on my behalf. You let them slander me and you let them suppress the truth that Zamorak was returning, the truth that I was saying, the truth that the other Priori sought to silence. After all I had done in your name, after years of devout, pious, faithful service to you…you stab me in the back and let those bastards toss me out into a swamp."

"Technically they did not toss you into a swamp; it was your own free choice to come to this place and not settle down somewhere in Centralia," Saradomin pointed out. When Jerrod's only response was an icy stare, the God continued. "But I can see why, from your point of view, flawed and mortal as it is, you would harbor ill will towards me. Allow me to explain."

"This should be good…" Jerrod muttered, settling back down into his chair in anticipation of a long and drawn-out story from the God of Light.

"I told you that I have a job for you, Faithful One," Saradomin repeated himself. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I cannot see directly into the future, as you know, but I am capable of reading Fate—how someone will die, what a person will accomplish, the sum of a man's spirit and actions; I am able to read any mortal, even followers of Darkness."

"Your point?" Jerrod asked lazily. This was old news for him.

"There is a prophecy, inscribed on the Stone of Jas, a prophecy that foretold the War between Zamorak and myself that has lasted these past few millennia," Saradomin explained. "It foretold its coming…it foretold everything that has happened since the Dark God turned against me after deposing his old master…it also foretells how it will end."

"Must be a pretty lengthy prophecy," Jerrod grunted.

"It is not written in the words of mortals," Saradomin said, debunking Jerrod's interpretation. "It is not 'written' in a way mortals could comprehend."

"Fascinating," Jerrod mumbled. The Cleric gave a passive shrug and decided to get down to brass tacks and cut through the fluff. "How does the war end, then? My money's on Centralia winning; Warmaster Athellenas runs a tight shift in its army."

"Only the coming of the end is prophesized, not the outcome," Saradomin sighed. "And even then…prophecies such as this must be interpreted; they are not plain and direct. It does not state that I will be victorious, or that Zamorak shall claim victory for himself, or even if it is a stalemate…again, it is incomprehensible to mortals."

"Well, that's not a great help, is it?"

"For you, I'm afraid not," Saradomin agreed. "The end of the prophecy is…elusive. I am unable to divine its meaning, or even what it entails. I have been trying for thousands of years to read it, but it is beyond my grasp. It's maddening, sometimes…"

"What _do_ you know?"

Saradomin was silent for a moment, hesitant. He cleared his throat finally and began to speak again, saying, "Let me show you." The God leaned forward even further and extended a hand, laying his palm flat over Father Jerrod's forehead.

A sharp pain lanced through the Cleric's skull, but the older man did not cry out. His mind was suddenly assaulted with a series of images and experiences, memories that were not his. It was almost like a flashback, only the images were quick and somewhat discombobulated.

_Sand. Wide, rolling sand dunes. A desert._

_ A city in the desert. Fires. Smoke. The city was burning._

_ A boy. Running through the streets of that city. He had pale skin._

_ Fireballs streaking through the sky, flaming arrows accompanying them._

_ A monster; deep red skin, gleaming horns, teeth, and claws, tall as a city wall. An elder demon. It roared and lunged._

_ An explosion of white light._

_Another city, this one surrounded by grasslands and hills. Bathed in golden sunlight. A bird chirped.  
_

_A flash of red light._

_The same city, surrounded by hordes of darkness and chaos. Fire and brimstone rained down upon it. The city began to burn, its central square cracking and smoking, its magnificent scarlet palace crumbling to dust, its walls, strong and proud, toppling like plague victims._

_Lightning._

_The pale-skinned boy surrounded by darkness and shadow, manipulating streams of blinding white energy. The energy swirled around him, thickening into a vortex. The vortex of white light grew brighter and brighter. The boy opened his eyes and they began to glow; fierce orbs of white burning in his skull. The boy let out a guttural shout and the energy swirling around him was unleashed. The brilliance of the explosion whited everything out._

_A dark palace; a looming black fortress. The land was blackened, broken, cracked, barren. The Wilderness._

_The apex of the fortress. Thunder and lightning rent the skies and rain pelted the ground. Two hazy figures on either side of the fortress roof; one red and one blue, both surrounded by auras of shimmering, crackling divine energy. Their features were obscured by the brilliance._

_The two figures charged each other. They met in the center of the fortress roof. A deafening, crashing boom. Another colossal explosion of light._

_Darkness._

Father Jerrod was still lying on the ground when he regained consciousness. "What the…" the Cleric mumbled, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the daylight.

Saradomin supported the Cleric as he got to his feet. "I am very sorry," the God apologized, "I did not anticipate your body to react in such a way."

"No, it's…it's fine…I…" the Cleric's voice trailed off into a low, inaudible mumble as he sat back down in the chair. He rested his head in his hands, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate the dull ache in his cranium. "What was all that?"

"That," Saradomin explained, sitting back down opposite Father Jerrod, "was bits and pieces of the prophecy I found on the Stone of Jas…I presented them to you in the form of visions which you, as a mortal, are able to interpret."

"Did you see what I saw?" Jerrod asked. The older man was still regaining his breath from the ordeal. The images had assaulted him so fast; he was still trying to piece them together.

"I did," Saradomin nodded.

"Was that the future?"

"It was…" the God paused, searching for the right words. "It was…yes, and no. The parts of the prophecy that I showed to you depict events that have yet to happen…but it cannot be conveyed accurately to a mortal, nor can I accurately explain it to you. You would not comprehend it."

"I _think_ I understand…" Father Jerrod said to the God, lying through his teeth. "I saw destruction…chaos…" the Cleric remembered the city with the scarlet palace and realized that he knew where that place was. "Tethys. The capital of Centralia…I saw it burning. I saw a city in the desert burning as well…then there was a dark place, a city of shadows...a dark citadel; it was raining…I saw you and Zamorak fighting, but I did not see who the victor was."

"Is that _all_ you saw?" Saradomin prompted the Cleric.

"Yeah, I…_no_…no, wait," Jerrod stopped, pausing to scratch his head as he remembered something else from his visions. He struggled to remember for what seemed like hours, but was, in reality, only minutes. "The boy!" the Cleric proclaimed triumphantly after a minute, snapping his fingers as the memories flooded back to him. "The pale-skinned boy…I saw him twice—once in the desert city, and again on the dark citadel on which you and Zamorak were fighting."

Saradomin nodded, his faint grin returning to his face. "The boy is something of an enigma to me," the God admitted. "His Fate is shrouded from my sight; I cannot read him. This is most unusual for a mortal child…I have never before encountered a mortal whose Fate I was unable to read."

"Any idea why he was in the visions?"

"That boy is inscribed on the Stone of Jas," Saradomin explained. "This is the first time I have ever seen a mortal inscribed on the Stone as well. This boy is full of mystery…he is a question that must be answered. I want you to be the one to answer it."

"Say again?"

"I know not what role this boy will play in the end of the War, which I have no doubt will come soon," Saradomin said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop absent-mindedly as he spoke, "I do, however, know that his role, whatever it may be, will be pivotal. Of that I have absolutely no shred of doubt. This boy has a destiny ahead of him; he has a part to play in the coming storm."

As Jerrod considered the God's words, he remembered another thing about the boy from his visions. The boy had been manipulating a type of magic in the form of brilliant white energy, energy that was none of the four elemental powers. "The boy…in my vision…that couldn't have been the Fifth Element he was invoking, could it?"

"I believe that is _exactly_ what he was using," Saradomin replied. "This boy seems to be very special. He must be, else he would not be inscribed on the Stone of Jas."

"But how is that possible?" Father Jerrod nearly spluttered. "The Fifth Element is impossible to control with simple willpower, or even with the assistance of runestones…and besides, you need control over all four elements to be able to even think of using the Fifth…and no one in Gielinor has control over all four elements."

"The answers you seek; I possess none of them," Saradomin shrugged helplessly. "You must find them on your own."

Jerrod remained silent for a full minute, processing everything he had learned. The Cleric was a practical man; he did not like not knowing the answers to important questions, or not knowing the reasons behind important actions. He did not know how or why a boy in his vision was able to invoke the Fifth Element, the same primordial energy that had shaped Gielinor as a world. He did not know why this boy was so important, nor how he was capable of such a level of magic, and the Cleric did not like that ignorance; not one bit.

"Okay, let's just say that you're right, and that this kid, wherever and whoever he is, is going to play a big part in ending the War between you and the Dark God," the Cleric hypothesized, playing along to an extent. "What is there that says that he won't end up falling under _Zamorak's_ influence and ending the war for _him?_"

"Unlikely, seeing as Zamorak seeks to have this boy killed. All the more reason to reach him first, before Zamorak and his minions can sink their foul, unholy talons into him," Saradomin asserted. "If we do not, then they will. That is the job I have for you, Faithful One. _You_ must find this boy."

"So what, now I'm a babysitter?" Jerrod grumbled. "How do we know that this boy is even alive right now? What's there to say that he hasn't even been born yet?"

"You shall have to 'trust me on this one,' as you mortals put it," Saradomin replied. "You _shall_ find him. Finding him will be easy because I know where he is."

"Oh, really?" the Cleric chuckled. "The plot thickens, I see. You didn't mind not mentioning that until now?"

"The boy is in Ullek, the largest and most prosperous of the Menaphite cities," Saradomin revealed. "He arrived there through a series of unexplained and strange circumstances…but that topic of discussion is for a later time. You must hurry, though; the Menaphite Empire has a storm of its own coming, just like Centralia. Find the boy. Find him, bring him back here, and train him."

"_Train_ the kid?!" Jerrod exclaimed. Had he been drinking anything, he would have spat it halfway across the room. What the God was suggestion was preposterous; how could an old has-been from Entrana, who was never a magic specialist to begin with, possibly train a boy who was supposed to bring about the end of the War? It defied reason.

"I have observed you here, in the swamp, for the past ten years," Saradomin said to Jerrod. "I do regret the circumstances upon which you arrived here…but your time here has sharpened you, edged you, _defined_ you. You have found yourself out here in Nature."

Father Jerrod gave a grudging shrug. Though he would never admit it to anyone, he _had_ somewhat enjoyed his time alone in the swamp. The hectic, stressful life of being a Priori in the Church of Saradomin on Entrana had left him with little time to pursue his inner journey. Spending a decade alone with the light creatures had given him more peace and satisfaction than he had ever felt when he wore the blue and white of a Priori on Entrana.

"Though you do not know it, your craft in the art of magicks has surpassed even the most skilled craftsman on Entrana," Saradomin said. "I have watched you perform the Prelucean light greeting with your friend Helios; creating light with your own inner life energy. Very few wizards are able to accomplish such a feat, and you perform it without even breaking a sweat. This swamp has also helped you discover your own inner energy. You are capable of great things, Faithful One; things you would not be capable of now had you spent the last ten years squabbling in a chamber with the other Priori."

"Damn it all…" Jerrod sighed to himself, grumbling under his breath.

"Something wrong?"

"You did exactly what I thought you would do," the Cleric said. "Pulled a good excuse out of your ass for letting me rot out here…and now I can't stay angry at you, because, God help me, I _agree_ with you. Now I have nothing to be bitter towards until I wither and pass from this life."

Saradomin chuckled lightly, rising from the chair he had been sitting in. "Of all my followers, Cleric, you are by far the most intriguing."

"Heh…" Father Ferrod grunted, getting up from his chair as well. "That's what they all tell me…though they never come out and say it directly like you do, and they never mean it as a compliment like you do. Their loss, I say."

"Indeed," Saradomin nodded in agreement, moving to grab the back of his chair.

"So, what's the catch?" Jerrod asked suddenly as Saradomin pushed his chair back under the table.

Saradomin was caught off guard by the seemingly random, out-of-the-blue inquiry. "Come again?"

"What's the catch?" Jerrod repeated himself. "I'm just supposed to traipse into Ullek, find a boy, and bring him back here; no harm, no sweat. It sounds easy. _Too_ easy, if you catch my drift. You also told me that I had to complete this task with all possible haste, and you would not ask that of me unless there was something else that I was racing against, so I ask you now: what's the catch?"

Saradomin pursed his lips for a moment, considering what he should say to his loyal follower. Finally, he decided to speak. "Do you know who Thammaron is?"

A cold pit of unease settled into Jerrod's stomach just at the mention of the foul name. "_The_ Thammaron?" the Cleric asked in a strained voice.

Saradomin nodded reluctantly. "The Great Scourge, Lord over all demons in Gielinor, last of the elder-demons in this world; currently one of Zamorak's most trusted subordinates."

"_The_ Thammaron…" Jerrod murmured again, though this time his voice was a quiet whisper, confirming his last statement.

"Indeed; _the_ Thammaron," Saradomin nodded again. The God of Light took a deep breath before he continued to speak. "I am not the only one who has seen the Prophecy on the Stone of Jas…Zamorak has also seen it. He seeks the boy as well…though he seeks to kill him, not capture him. Or if he _does_ capture him, the first thing he will do is kill him if the boy does not turn. To accomplish this…he has sent Thammaron to destroy the Menaphites. The Scourge has invaded the Menaphite Empire with a colossal army."

"Uh-huh…" Jerrod grunted, nodding slowly. "The plot thickens even more, eh?"

"Thammaron has orders to capture or kill the boy from the prophecy, the child you saw in your visions," Saradomin explained. "You must get to Ullek before the Great Scourge does. If Thammaron captures the boy, all will be for naught. Thammaron will not be able to attack Ullek directly; first he must move through the northern regions of the desert, and then he will have to break through Shantay Pass. The Menaphites will keep him bottled up there for a time…but he _will_ break through, and when he does, only Uzer will stand between his horde and Ullek."

"Surely Uzer cannot fall…" Jerrod murmured, but even as the Cleric spoke he knew that his statement was hollow. He painfully recalled the burning desert city in his visions; it had been Ullek—Jerrod recognized the great Plaza in the center of the city. In the vision it had been filled with blood, corpses, and hordes of foul, unspeakable vermin from the deep places of the world. Ullek was going to be attacked, and that meant that even Uzer, the great bastion of the Menaphite Empire, was running on borrowed time.

"Unless the Menaphites receive assistance from Centralia, it _will_ fall," Saradomin declared. "Now, Faithful One, you must make for Port Sarim with all haste. There, you will find transportation to the desert. I give unto you my blessing for a safe journey."

"Great," Jerrod muttered, slipping his traveling cloak on over his shirt and britches. "From what you're saying, though, the journey is going to be the _easy_ part…"


	6. Chapter 6: Brewing Trouble

Chapter Six: Brewing Trouble

**_Avis_**

The sun dipped down below the western horizon, bidding adieu to the world and all its troubles until it made its entrance in the east tomorrow morning. With it went the brilliant golden light that had painted the sunset sky. As the heavens made their transition from sunset to twilight, the light in the west darkened from amber orange to a soft aurora of maroon and violet.

Avis watched the sunset from the top of one of the bell towers in the southern reaches of Ullek, the social and cultural epicenter of the Menaphite Desert. As the light in the west died, Avis finally looked away. The heat of the day was already beginning to fade.

That was one of the downsides of life in the desert; there were never any warm or moderate days. During the day the desert was ridiculously hot, and during the night it got ridiculously _cold_. At least, to a Menaphite it got ridiculously cold. Ridiculously cold for a Menaphite was probably the equivalent of a simple, common chilly morning for a Centralian.

Avis took a breath and shuddered as the nightly chill began to set in. He did not have a cloak; all he was wearing were his ragged black-cloth shorts. They had actually been full pants at one time, but Avis's under-the-radar activities throughout the city had not been kind to them; they stopped, now, just above his knees, ending in frayed strings.

Those shorts were all Avis had had the chance to steal, lately, anyway. Stealing clothing was a lot more difficult than stealing food. Food was easy to make and easy to replace, so the vendors who sold it naturally were not as hawkeyed on the lookout for thieves. Clothes, on the other hand, took time to create, and were much more expensive. Those who sold clothing, or the materials needed to produce clothing, often hired trained mercenaries or guards to watch their goods. Many a thief had been captured and lost a hand for taking on those goons.

Avis did not intend to count himself amongst them, so he was satisfied to keep his cloth rags, as well as both of his hands.

The pale-skinned ten-year-old slid down the domed roof of the bell tower and proceeded to descend back down to the rooftops. He dropped from beam to beam, swinging himself and lowering himself down the height of the tower until finally he dropped down to the white stone roof of the domicile below.

There were still a few people on the street below, but not many. This part of the city was not very populated, and most citizens would be turning in for the night around this time, anyway. Both of those factors combined and contributed to the street being nearly empty.

Avis moved along the rooftops for another few minutes, making his way down the street to his destination. That destination was a dusty old antique shop that no one ever visited. That was good, in a way, for the antique shop was just a front. The real operation was the group of young thieves who had made their abode in the shop's extensive basement.

Avis had once been a part of that group, but two years ago, when he had been eight years old, he partially left it, preferring to roam the streets on his own. The ten-year-old still visited his old friends frequently, but he no longer lived with them. He no longer lived anywhere; all of Ullek was now his home.

The ten-year-old hopped off of the roof and slid down the canopy that shaded the front door of the antique shop, landing on the cobblestones of the street with not so much as a light _tap_. Avis dusted himself off and walked into the antique shop.

Farrah was not behind the counter, so he must have closed up shop for the night. Farrah was the old man who tended to the antique shop, and who also allowed Avis's friends to use his basement. His store didn't get any business, so he had no income. The thieves were the ones who kept him fed, and he was the one who provided them with shelter. It was a symbiotic relationship.

Avis made his way through the tables and stands of exotic items and trinkets, circling around the back of the counter towards the rear of the place. Not remembering where the downstairs entrance was, he started tapping the floor lightly with his foot, tapping in different places around the back of the counter.

The tapping yielded no results until the ten-year-old lighted upon a section of floor in the backroom. When he tapped it with his foot, it gave a dull, echoing thump. It was hollow, judging by the sound.

Avis gave a satisfied nod, now remembering. It had been a while since he had last used it. The boy crouched down and pressed two knots in the wood with two of his fingers. The dark spots depressed, allowing the boy to curl his fingers around and attain a somewhat firm grip on the trapdoor. Avis used his fingers to pull the trapdoor up a fraction, and then slid his other hand through the resulting crack and lifted the door up the rest of the way.

A shaft extended down into the ground. A wavering light was visible at the bottom, and the sound of voices floated up to the surface. Avis smiled. He recognized those voices.

The boy shimmied down the entrance shaft, closing the trapdoor above him as he went. He dropped down to the floor and walked through the open door in the small room at the bottom.

The basement of Farrah's antiques shop had been extended and lengthened. It now had to stretch a good distance under the street; there was no way a space this large could have all been under a small, dusty old shop on the surface; it was simply too big.

Three long, rectangular tables sat in the main room. There were two other rooms that branched off from the two sides of the main one: one was a quasi-dormitory, really a room filled with blankets and sacks of grain that were suitable for sleeping on; the second was a kitchen.

There were over a dozen orphans who lived here, but only five were still in the main room. The others must have gone to bed. That meant Avis had missed dinner.

Jafa was sitting at one of the tables with three others; an older girl around his age, and two younger boys. They were playing some sort of dice game.

Farrah was sitting at another of the tables with the fifth orphan, applying salve and a bandage to a laceration on the child's arm.

"Evening, chaps," Avis announced as he strode into the room, pulling the burlap sack of bread that he had stolen from the Plaza off of his shoulder.

"Avis!" Jafa exclaimed, dropping the dice that he was holding, springing up from the table.

"Hey, big boy," the girl flashed Avis a smile. "Jafa said you'd be here for dinner. What kept you?"

"I was _going_ to be," Avis murmured. "Nice to see you, too, Lessa."

"What took you so long? You were supposed to be here hours ago!" Jafa said as he pulled Avis into a firm embrace. The adolescent released the boy after a few seconds and, for the first time, noticed the bands of iron that were clamped around Avis's wrists. "What's with the new jewelry?"

"Irons," Avis explained, shaking the manacles that were still stubbornly locked around his wrists. Avis had broken the short chain that had connected them, so the manacles were little more than bracelets. Though he had broken the chain, though, he still had no way to remove the actual irons. For now, they were stuck. Heavy, irremovable bracelets. "I had a little run-in with our…mutual acquaintance, if you get my meaning."

"Jhabour…" Jafa whispered. "He's out and about, again? How's he doing?"

"Well first, it's _Ai_-Jhabour, now," Avis corrected his friend.

"He got promoted?" Jafa whispered. "Really?"

"Go figure," Avis grunted. "But he's doing fine…same old, same old…still wants to kill you next time he sees you."

Jafa looked hurt. "Why would he want to do that? As I recall, _you_ were the one who shoved that torch into his face, not me."

"Guilty by association," Avis replied.

"Ain't _that_ a bitch…"

"Yeah…but anyways, I was walking through the Plaza, on my way here," Avis said, sitting down at the table and beginning to tell his story to his peers, "and I decide to grab some bread for the trip. It's in that bag, by the way," the boy gestured to the burlap sack he had dropped on his way in. "So I lift the bread alright—it was probably one of the best lifts I've ever done. I'm talking smooth as satin; no alarms, no trouble from the vendor. Not even the bystanders noticed. You would have been proud. So anyway, I'm walking away, then Jhabour just swoops out of nowhere and _grabs_ me…must have been trailing me, waiting for me to make a move…he claps me in _these_ suckers," Avis shook his manacled wrists, "and hauls me off to a prison carriage."

"A prison carriage?" one of the younger boys—Dalib, his name was—asked, wide-eyed. "How'd you get outta one of those?"

"Oh, I didn't," Avis chuckled. "I never got _into_ the carriage."

"How could you have-" Lessa started to ask, but then it occurred to her just what she would have done in a similar situation. She made a face. "Don't tell me you-"

"Yep," Avis nodded, grimacing as he remembered the wrenching feeling in his stomach as he had made himself throw up. "Retched all over Jhabour's sandals—that distracted him…you should have heard him scream," Avis's grimace morphed into a light grin at the memory. "So then I kick him, right in the gut…"

Jafa hooted with laughter. "Ah man…he must've been pissed. Must _still_ be pissed…"

"Well I wouldn't know," Avis shrugged. "I broke the chain on the irons and hightailed it outta there before I could see the look on his face. Too bad, really…would've loved to have seen it…"

"Amen…" Lessa chuckled. Lessa had never personally had a run-in with Jhabour, but she had heard enough to get a fair idea of what kind of man the Qarat guard captain was. Avis and Jafa's stories of their encounters with the man said it all.

"How did you break the chain?"

"Huh?" Avis turned around to see Farrah standing behind him, an expression of mild interest on the old man's face.

Farrah was dressed in his usual cream-colored robe and maroon turban. The colors went well with his wrinkled, deep bronze skin. One of his teeth was capped with gold, and two more with silver. Laughter lines surrounded his eyes, which were a soft blue with a slight twinkle.

"Oh, hey, Farrah," Avis smiled at the old man who had pretty much raised him since infancy, seeking to change the subject away from the circumstances by which he had broken the chain. No one else knew about his Ability. "What happened to Asa's arm?" the ten-year-old asked, nodding towards the injured orphan who Farrah had just finished bandaging.

"He was sliced by a Qaratai after he was spotted stealing in the southeastern market," Farrah replied. "Poor child was nearly bled out by the time he made it back here…he went out alone, too. That is precisely why I encourage you all to work in _pairs_ at the very least…" the old man's voice trailed off as he spoke. Farrah looked deep in thought for a second before he shrugged. "Bah," he snorted, "what do I know anyway? Things are different from when I was in the streets at your age…_we_ always went in pairs. That way, when someone got hurt, there was always someone else to help him along…"

"Hey, I just got back," Jafa raised his hands in mock surrender. "Can't blame this one on me."

"I am not leveling blame on anyone," Farrah reassured the sixteen-year-old. "Just please try and stop the younger ones from going off on their own, will you? That is how we start losing people and getting them back one-handed."

"Yes, sir," Jafa nodded.

Everyone sat in silence for a full minute, content to relax in the flickering light produced by the candle lanterns mounted on the walls. Finally, Lessa let out a weary yawn and stood up from her chair. "I'm gonna go turn in," she said, walking off towards the dormitory room. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah, me too," Dalib got up and followed Lessa. The other two young boys did likewise, leaving Avis, Farrah, and Jafa alone in the room.

Farrah sat down at the table opposite Jafa and Avis. He and Jafa had been waiting for everyone else to leave. "Well…here we stand. Or sit," Farrah corrected himself. "It's been a while since the three of us have been together in the same room."

"Cause for celebration, says I," Jafa chuckled.

"Indeed…" Farrah murmured.

Avis's brow furrowed in a slight frown. Farrah seemed ill at ease as well. The ten-year-old remembered how tense Jafa had been acting in the Plaza earlier. Avis had not had the chance to speak to him about it at the time, but now it looked like he was about to get that chance.

"What's on your mind?" Avis asked the adolescent. "You look like someone's told you the world's gonna end tomorrow."

"Not too far off the truth, there…" Jafa muttered. The older boy took a breath and exchanged a quick glance with Farrah. When the old man gave him a nod, he continued. "I wasn't released from my work gang, you know," Jafa admitted. "I escaped."

"I thought you had done your time, anyway," Avis said. "Eight months."

Jafa snorted with disdain. "Yeah, that was my time, but they had no intention of actually letting me go for another year. But that's not important…" the black-haired adolescent shifted into a more comfortable position, drumming his fingers on the table nervously. "We were working in a mine up near the Shantay Pass when it happened."

"When what happened?" Avis started to ask, but Farrah held up a hand and quelled him before he had a chance to finish his whole question.

"We felt the ground rumble," Jafa recalled. "It was nothing at first…but it didn't stop. The rumbling grew stronger and stronger…finally, the overseers pulled me and the rest of the prisoners out of the mines in case of a cave-in. That surprised me; I wouldn't have thought that they would have cared one way or another what happened to us. So we're just standing around, waiting for whatever happens next to happen…then this Qaratai general, Duvai, I think his name was. He shows up at our camp and flashes the head overseer a roll of documents. Next thing I know, we—me and the other laborers—we're being herded into formation."

"You were conscripted?" Avis sounded surprised.

"Looking back on it now…yeah, I guess," Jafa shrugged. "Probably into a penal battalion—one of those units made up of criminals and misfits which the Qarat usually send on suicide charges. Well, sure enough, we were marched right up north to Shantay Pass and given weapons," Jafa burst out into a small fit of laughter as he remembered the scene. "No armor, mind you, just weapons. And shoddy ones at that. We were lined up on top of the wall that spanned the pass…five hundred prisoner-soldiers to man the entire wall…it was madness. But we did it."

"Why did they need you there?"

"Getting to that," Jafa replied. Avis made a mental promise to keep his mouth shut until Jafa was finished. "Some army units showed up later, and they manned the wall with us. We stood there all morning and afternoon—we had been marched there through the night. At first, it was boring as hell. Nothing happened, nothing was going on…I started playing dice with some of the Qaratai there. Nice guys, all of them… That was when the rumbling started again. It was a light tremor in the earth, but the sound of it echoing off the mountain pass…" Jafa shuddered. "Not long after, we finally caught sight of them."

"Of who?"

"Less of a 'who' and more of a _what_," Jafa explained. "Monsters from the myths and legends only the elders still know…beasts from the deep places of the world…vampyres, wolves, demons…_undead_…" the sixteen-year-old shuddered at the memory. "There were thousands, _thousands_ of them, all marching together in a massive horde; all of them under the banner of the Dark God Zamorak…his foul symbol was easy to spot from atop the ramparts…they were all coming right toward us, coming right at the Shantay Pass wall. We've lost all contact with our cities and settlements up north…seeing a horde like that coming towards us, I wouldn't want to bet on the survival of anyone north of the Pass."

"Why haven't we heard of this yet?" Avis asked incredulously. "Why aren't there alarms going off, why isn't the Qarat shoring up the city for a siege?!"

"Because the only ones who know about what's happening up north are the poor bastards who are dying up there now, and the Qarat commanders, and the Qarat commanders think they have the situation under control. They aren't gonna get the whole empire up in a panic if they can help it."

Farrah sat and listened silently to Jafa's story. This was his first time hearing it as well, though he had managed to hold his tongue better than Avis. Now, he spoke. "Did Shantay Pass hold?"

"I have no idea," Jafa shrugged. "More and more Qarat units were arriving as Zamorak's horde approached…the next night I stole a camel and slipped away. No way in hell _I_ was throwing my life away on that wall…I wasn't even supposed to _be_ there in the first place; my labor sentence had already been completed. So, I slipped away under cover of night. I met a few Bedabin nomads in the heart of the desert along the way, and they gave me water and supplies…I got back to Ullek yesterday. I left the Pass two weeks ago, and I left before the fighting began…but I knew the capabilities of that wall, and I saw how massive Zamorak's army was…and I can tell you, without a doubt, that the defenders at Shantay Pass don't stand a chance. _Didn't_ stantd a chance…there's no possible way they could have held that wall for this long."

"So let me get this straight," Farrah cleared his throat, trying to get to the bottom of what Jafa had been saying. "A huge Zamorakian horde has broken through the Shantay Pass and is about to hit us from the north? And no one here has any idea? Where did these forces come from? How did-"

"I know what I saw," Jafa reasserted, folding his arms across his chest defensively. "I told the first Qarat guard captain I came across all about what I saw up north and he nearly arrested me for trying to disrupt the peace. I'm telling you, there's a storm coming, and the people here are too thickheaded to see how _big_ it is. But there is a bright side," the adolescent added.

"Oh, really?" Farrah cocked an eyebrow, curious to see where Jafa could take this.

"Yeah," Jafa nodded. "Well, a small bright side attached to a crapload of dark sides, but still… I believe the horde that I saw at the Shantay Pass was just the vanguard. They were very lightly supplied and lightly armed, as if they were just scouting the route out. They seemed hesitant to engage in a head-on attack when they caught sight of us on the wall, and they had no siege weaponry. I think those thousands of monsters and beasts were only part of a larger force, and they are probably regrouping right now. Getting a force of tens of thousands through the Shantay Pass will take time, but they _will_ do it. The bright side is that Uzer stands in between them and us. The Empire will get its wake-up call when Zamorak's forces burn Uzer to the ground, giving _us_ the chance to start shoring up Ullek's defenses before the horde arrives _here_."

"Why are you not one of the Pharaoh's military advisors?" Farrah chuckled. "You speak exactly like one…"

"Hey," Jafa shrugged, "you of all people know that _I_ of all people would never make something like this up. If those monsters start attacking Ullek, I'm hightailing my ass down south to Sophanem."

"I trust you completely, young man," Farrah reassured the adolescent. "Your news is very…very…" the old man searched for a word that could adequately sum up Jafa's account, "…very _troubling_, to say the least…"

"No argument here," Jafa grunted.

Farrah remained silent for another minute, staring off into the candlelight, absentmindedly stroking his beard. He took a deep breath and gave Jafa a satisfied nod. "Thank you, Jafa… I need to speak with Avinius; would you excuse us?"

Jafa shook his head, getting up out of his chair. "No, you can just stay here; I'm hitting the sack anyway. I've had a long day, too."

"See you in the morning, then," Farrah said, bowing his head slightly to the adolescent.

"Likewise," Jafa returned the bow. "'Night, Avis."

"Good night," Avis hollered after Jafa as the sixteen-year-old ducked into the dormitory room, leaving the ten-year-old alone at the table with Farrah.

Farrah reached into his pocket and drew out his long, elegant Badb pipe. He packed the pipeweed into the bowl of the pipe and lit it with one of the candles. He took several long draughts from the pipe, getting the airflow moving through the stem, before he started to smoke it proper, drawing in a mouthful of flavored smoke, and then releasing it into the air with his breath.

"I do enjoy having you here, Avinius; you should visit more often," the old man said to the ten-year-old in between puffs.

"I like being out in the city," Avis replied, settling into his chair as he spoke. "I don't like having any one place to be tied to…like this place, no offense. I like it better out in the throng of things…there's an energy in everything out there, you know, and when I travel through the city, immerse myself in it…I can _feel_ that energy, I can lose myself in it. I can't describe it…" Avis's voice trailed off. The boy looked down at his feet and wondered if he had said too much. He usually never talked about his inner experiences out in the city.

Farrah nodded, as if he was confirming something he already suspected. Turns out, he was. The old man leaned forward and gently grabbed hold of Avis's wrists, observing the manacles that were still clamped around them.

"Can you get them off?" Avis asked, motioning to the iron bands.

"I'm afraid not," Farrah shook his head. "Unless you can find a blacksmith to break them off, those irons are not going anywhere…" Farrah murmured. He turned Avis's wrists over and observed the broken links of the chain that had used to connect the two manacles to each other, the chain that Avis had broken. "Tell me, Avinius…how exactly did you break this chain?" the old man asked.

Avis swore inside his mind. He had hoped his changing of topics during the earlier conversation had made Farrah forget about the broken chain…apparently the old man had a better memory than Avis gave him credit for.

"The links were not melted open, nor were they broken, ripped, or forcibly torn. The broken link is sheared perfectly in half," Farrah observed.

Avis pulled his wrists away.

Farrrah did not relent. "The metal that chain was made out of was not pure iron; it was a mix of iron and other metals, which is called an alloy. The alloy that chain was made out of was many times stronger than regular iron; nothing short of a full battleaxe could have cut it perfectly in half. And I know for a fact that battleaxes capable of dealing such a blow exist only in Centralia," the old man pressed on. "You can see the conundrum I have brought to light? There is no possible way you could have broken that chain by use of conventional…or _physical_ means."

Avis said nothing. Farrah was already figuring everything out for himself; Avis had nothing to say that the old man did not most likely already know.

Farrah took Avis's silence as another confirmation. "That energy you described, that ability to almost…to _feel_ the life of the city, of its inhabitants all around you; it has a name, you know. It is called the Anima Mundi—the Soul of the World. It is the energy of this world, vested in all living things. To be able to feel it as you do…" Farrah leaned in close, holding his pipe down to the table as he spoke. "You used Air Magic, didn't you?" the old man asked quietly.

"Yes," Avis admitted. There was no point in lying; Farrah would see right through any deception Avis could come up with.

Farrah leaned back into his chair. The old man slipped his pipe back into his mouth and drew another breath, exhaling the scented smoke back into the air. "How long have you had this ability?"

"Long as I can remember."

"Since birth, then…" Farrah nodded again. To him, it was making sense. "Do you know what runestones are?"

"Yeah, kind of…" Avis replied, giving a slight shrug. "I know they have something to do with casting magic."

"Runestones are items imbibed with the power of the elements," Farrah explained to the ten-year-old. "The energy within them, channeled through a wizard's life energy, allows a human, elf, or other sentient creatures, to cast magic. It cannot be done without them."

"I've been using Air magic since I was born, and _I_ never used one of these 'runestones,'" Avis declared, exposing the hole in Farrah's explanation.

"Exactly; that is one of the things that has me confused…" Farrah murmured. The old man fell silent once again, settling into a deep, pensive reverie, sitting and rocking in his chair as he smoked his pipe. When he spoke again, it was no longer about Avis's Ability. It was something different, this time.

"Avinius…" the old man murmured. "A unique name…I'm sure you know what it means?"

"_Of the Stars_," Avis answered correctly.

"Yes…I was the one who gave you that name when you were an infant, you know," Farrah said. "Let me tell you why. I think it's time I explained where you came from."


	7. Chapter 7: Mobilization

Chapter Seven: Mobilization

_**Athellenas**_

Port Sarim was a smaller-sized town, located on the eastern banks of the Knossos Bay, many leagues southwest of Tethys. Though it was not the largest town in Centralia, it was arguably the busiest port, engaging in regular maritime trade with the tropical island of Karamja to the southwest, and with the Menaphites from the desert to the southeast. Port Sarim was the central hub between those two locations, and the trade goods went right through it and into the rest of Centralia.

Obviously, Port Sarim was not the only port in Centralia, but its ideal location on the leeward side of the Knossos Bay put it right smack in the middle of the trade routes from Karamja and the Menaphite Desert, both incoming trade and outgoing. Despite its moderate size, Sarim was nevertheless a bustling place as a result of this.

Warmaster Athellenas stood at the edge of a tall cliff, gazing down at the port city from the pinnacle of the small mountain which he had made camp upon for the previous night. The entire First Element of the Centralian Army was camped below; a huge mosaic of white tents arranged in haphazard rows and columns. Thirteen thousand men; infantry, light and heavy cavalry, archers—both mounted archers and longbowmen on foot, artillerists, engineers, medical personnel, and the ever-important cooks; all divided evenly into three subordinate legions; each legion led by a subordinate General. The vista of the tents, when looked upon from above, seemed impromptu and unorganized, sure, but Athellenas was not bothered by it; as long as the soldiers still knew how to fight, which they definitely did, the Warmaster really couldn't care less how neatly they could set up tents.

Athellenas observed the waterfront with his spyglass, watching as the medium-sized fleet of ships, which was supposed to rendezvous with him, drew into the Knossos Bay. They were just coming into view, rounding the point of the Spur. The Spur was the small part of Centralia that extended the furthest distance down into the Southern Ocean. It was a lush, green region, dotted with towns and villages. The Spur, to Athellenas, appeared as a green coastline that stretched south as far as the eye could see before the mist of distance obscured it from view. Port Sarim was located just north of the Spur. The Spur was also what separated the ocean from the bay and what ended up inadvertently blocking a good deal of bad weather, keeping the Knossos Bay relatively calm during most of the year.

Another reason why Port Sarim was an ideal center of trade: not very much bad weather.

The fleet of ships destined to provide transportation for Athellenas's men was rounding the Spur right now. Athellenas estimated that they would arrive at port in two or three hours, as the wind was on their side. Had the wind been blowing in another direction, the fleet's journey would be considerably lengthened. Such was the nature of sailing.

The past few days had been a blur. To the Warmaster, it still felt like it had been only yesterday when King Osman had brought him back into the Forum to finalize his plans.

News was already beginning to circulate around Centralia of Athellenas's ill-fated encounter with the Forum. The Warmaster had been dealing with those politicians ever since he had been a young infantry centurion under the direct command of the legendary Warmaster Aurelius, his predecessor. However, something had snapped in Athellenas when he had debriefed the Forum on the destruction of Ephyrn.

King Osman had called a recess, and then reconvened the next day. The main roadblock that was preventing the King from fully mobilizing the army to respond to the growing possibility of a Zamorackian resurgence was the fact that the Forum refused to approve a Declaration of War without the acquiescence of the Church. And the Church refused to acknowledge that Zamorak was emerging from the Wilderness.

To circumvent this, King Osman decided instead to mobilize only the 1st Element of the Centralian Army and put the others on reserve status. He was able to do this without a full War Declaration. While Athellenas was still not yet in command of the full army, as was his right, he now had command over its first and largest subdivision. It was a lot better than nothing.

Osman had been receiving disturbing news from the Menaphite Desert until two days ago, when contact was suddenly and abruptly cut off. Something was very wrong in the desert; the Menaphites had never cut off contact like this in the past.

It was clear to Athellenas what was happening over there. The Warmaster had known that Zamorak had been devastated by his defeat at the River Salve six hundred years ago, but the Warmaster had also known that the Dark God had obviously been regrouping, rebuilding his forces for the past century or so, as evidenced by the growing number of attacks on the Centralian border. Now, it was sounding more and more like the Dark God had finally unleashed his forces.

Osman had figured that once Athellenas and his men brought back hard, physical evidence that Zamorak was on the move, the Church would be forced to acknowledge the Dark One's resurgence, and in so doing would spur the Forum to authorize a full Declaration of War. Osman had run that through the consuls at the Forum the day after Athellenas's fight with Consul Earis, finalized the mobilization of the 1st Element, and sent Athellenas on his way.

Now, five days later, Athellenas found himself overlooking the fully-mobilized 1st Element, waiting for a contingent of the Centralian Navy to provide him and his men with transportation to the Menaphite Desert. Going by ship up the River Lum to the desert would be much faster than marching across the breadth of Centralia.

This whole situation was going differently than Athellenas had always feared and planned for. The Warmaster had always expected Zamorak to come thundering south from the Wilderness, straight into Centralia, burning and pillaging as he went. This had not happened; for whatever reason, Zamorak seemed to be attacking the desert first. Exactly _why_ Zamorak was choosing to go after the Menaphites, Athellenas did not know.

"I don't know why, either."

Athellenas didn't need to glance behind himself to see that it was Sir Derren who has spoken. "Mm?" the Warmaster gave as inquisitive grunt.

"I know what you're probably thinking; why in Saradomin's holy name the Dark One would decide to invade the desert before first taking care of us," Sir Derren explained. "Doesn't make any sense to me, either."

Athellenas offered a simple shrug in response, stepping over to the left a tad bit as Sir Derren drew up alongside him. "The motives of Gods are seldom known to the likes of us…but though we may not understand the Dark One's reasons for attacking the desert, I would wager anything that they exist nonetheless. Zamorak would not unleash his full strength on the Menaphites for no reason."

"Well, then, regardless of _why_ the Dark One has decided to take a stroll through the sand…what exactly can _we_ do to stop him?" Sir Derren posed the question in its most rational form. "If the rumors we heard about Thammaron being in the desert are true… You are a great man, Warmaster, and an unrivaled commander. But I would not want to wager on a battle between this army and an army under Thammaron."

"That is wise; if you did wager for me in such a battle, you would be a fool," Athellenas agreed.

"Oh, I wouldn't have wagered on you," Sir Derren chuckled. "I would have wagered on Thammaron—I always win my bets."

Derren's frankness even got a laugh out of the Warmaster. "It's never a dull moment with you, Derren," Athellenas mused. The Warmaster turned back to the view of the port that lay before him. "We should get everybody ready to move. The Navy will be here, soon."

"Agreed," Sir Derren nodded. "I shall see to it."

Athellenas remained rooted to the spot as his second-in-command swung himself up into his steed's saddle. Sir Derren let out a belting '_Yah!_' as he nudged Kicker, his battlehorse, into gear, galloping off down the long, winding path that led to the meadows and fields below the mountain where the men of the First Element were encamped.

The Warmaster continued to observe the naval vessels as they trudged up along the coast of the Knossos Bay towards the docks of Port Sarim. He watched them until he was able to distinguish the brilliant colors of the Centralian flags billowing from the tops of their mainmasts.

The Centralian Navy was not quite as 'hands-on' as its counterpart that fought on land, but that did not make it any less important. Centralia received a sizeable amount of trade from Karamja, the Menaphite Desert, and Ainuido—the exotic, oriental, isolated lands far across the Eastern Oceans. This trade came in through Centralia's ports from oceanic trade routes—trade routes which had at one time been mercilessly preyed upon by pirates. The formation of the Centralian Navy, roughly eight or nine hundred years ago, had managed to keep the pirates in check.

That had happened at a critical time in the formation of Centralia as the strongest nation in Gielinor—the God Wars had been raging for over a thousand years by that point, and humans had just been doing all they could to try to survive. The Old Kingdoms of the Second Age were memories, rent asunder by the horrible war between Zamorak and Saradomin. From the remnants of the Old Kingdoms rose a scattered, disorganized patchwork of feudal fiefdoms and city-states. The constant threat of attack from the forces of Chaos had united those fiefdoms and fused them into what was now Centralia, united under Pendragon, the first King of Centralia. King Osman was Pendragon's direct descendant.

"Beautiful, is it not?" the voice came from behind, bringing Athellenas out of his deep thoughts concerning Centralia's history.

Athellenas did not turn around this time, either. The man who had spoken stood abreast the Warmaster, not making eye contact with him, but rather gazing out at the Knossos Bay as well. He was an older man; younger than Athellenas, but still no spring chicken. A neatly-trimmed black beard—contrasting sharply with Athellenas's somewhat bushy gray one—covered the man's chin. He had a sharp, straight nose, black hair which was beginning to gray, and clear, piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in dull, battered armor that was tinted blue. Athellenas glanced at the man's breastplate and saw the easily recognizable faded-golden four-pointed holy star symbol of the God Saradomin, engraved on the chestpiece.

The man was a Temple Knight Paladin; a warrior from the Church of Saradomin who fought alongside the soldiers of the Centralian Army. This man was pretty much a political officer; the one who would see to the morale of the men, who would prevent them from deserting, who would keep them all true in their faith to Saradomin, and who would report directly to the Priori of Entrana. In some ways, the Paladin held more authority than Athellenas did himself. In _some_ ways.

Overall, Athellenas would never be able to be subverted by any Paladin—the Warmaster was simply too close to King Osman, and King Osman would never allow Athellenas to be removed.

Secure in that knowledge, Athellenas did not have any overt or internal reaction to the Paladin's presence. The Paladin standing next to the Warmaster noticed this, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"Most commanders under whom I've served have at least _cringed_ at the sight of me," the Paladin mused. "Nothing from you, though. I must say…that is somewhat refreshing. A commander who has minerals."

Athellenas grunted. "I'm still a faithful Saradominist—that is all you need to know."

The Paladin chuckled. "That would certainly make my job easier, would it not, if that was all I needed to know? You misjudge me; I am here to ensure that the…moral compass of this army remains pointed towards the light."

"Towards Entrana, you mean?"

"They are one and the same, Warmaster."

"Mm-hm," Athellenas grunted again. That answer did not settle well with the Centralian veteran. The Warmaster brought the spyglass down from his eye and he turned his head to directly face his counterpart from the Church. "What's your name?"

"Anesti," the Paladin replied.

"Well then, Paladin Anesti," Athellenas cleared his throat, turning himself completely to face the Paladin. "If you are going to serve _under_ me," the Warmaster made sure he stressed the 'under,' "then there is one thing you should know. As I said before, I am a faithful Saradominist. However, I am also, first and foremost, the senior Warmaster of Centralia. My duty is to King Osman; _not_ to the Priori of your Church."

When Anesti opened his mouth to protest, Athellenas raised his hand, quelling the Paladin.

"My men answer to _me_, not to you," the Warmaster continued. "I will not have the likes of you undercutting my authority. If I so much as find a shred of evidence that you are swaying my men with your Church's dogma, I can guarantee you that what happens next will not be enjoyable for you."

Paladin Anesti was at a loss for words at first, but he did not show it in his outward appearance. He had endured the relentless training—both spiritual and physical, theological and militarical—required to become a Paladin of Entrana. Going through all of that had given him the ability to remain dispassionate, no matter how dire a situation could become.

The smooth veneer of Anesti's personality was somewhat ruffled nonetheless by Athellenas's reply. The Paladin had served in many parts of the Centralian Army, but never before had he encountered a commander who had outright refused to allow a Paladin almost free reign within his unit. Of course, this was the first time Anesti had served with an officer ranking higher than Centurion.

Still, it would take a lot more to get Anesti riled up. The only outward reaction the Paladin displayed was a simple raised eyebrow. "As long as your men remain true in their faith to the Lord Saradomin, I do not believe your authority will ever be in question."

"Damn right it won't," Athellenas growled. "You needn't worry about their faith to Saradomin; it is resolute. Morale is where you shall play a part, not faith. But do not ever try to give my men counsel that may countermand or contradict any of my orders. If you can avoid that, then I believe our relationship will not be a strained one. We can be a team and accomplish much, or we can be rivals and accomplish nothing. That I shall leave up to you."

The Warmaster gave the Paladin a hearty clap on the shoulder as he walked away from the edge of the cliff where he had been watching the bay. As the Warmaster swung himself up onto Onyx and kicked off, galloping away down the mountainside, the Paladin remained rooted to the spot.

"_Mm_…finally…" Paladin Anesti hummed, closing his eyes and breathing in the fresh, crisp morning air. "Someone worth his weight in shit."

* * *

Athellenas had just trotted back into the camp when he heard the commotion. A sentry's bugle was being sounded off on the other side of the huge encampment. Soldiers were emerging from their tents, shaking their heads groggily, curious to know what the source of all the hubbub was.

The Warmaster galloped straight through the camp, careful to avoid soldiers who were stumbling out into the open paths between the sections of tents. Mowing down his men would not necessarily improve his reputation.

Dozens of soldiers were grouping up at the eastern outskirts of the First Element's encampment. Some of the men who were archers had grabbed their bows and were aiming them at the man who was at the centre of the chaos.

Athellenas maneuvered through the trees outside of the encampment. He could tell from the men's armor insignias that they were from _IV Legion_, the White Eagles; General Sinclair's legion. They were renowned for their archers and cavalry. They drew back to a respectful distance, creating a path for the Warmaster to advance through.

The cause of the hubbub was in a clearing in the pine trees, several hundred yards beyond the sentry lines. A man dressed in a simple, faded-blue traveling cloak was standing in the centre of the clearing. He had slightly tanned skin and craggy, weathered features. Not rugged, but one could still tell that this was a man who had seen and done a lot in his lifetime. He had a short salt-and-pepper beard and a fringe of similar-colored hair circling his otherwise bald cranium. He was unarmed and surrounded by a ring of archers. The archers had their arrows knocked and were keeping their aim trained on the cloaked man.

A centurion, identifiable by the brilliant red plume on his helmet, was barking orders to the men, but he fell silent when he caught sight of Warmaster Athellenas.

"What is your name, Centurion?" Athellenas asked.

"Orestes, sir," the Centurion replied. "Royal Knight of the Eighth Order. First Company, First Cohort."

Athellenas recognized the man, now. He was the second-in-command of the _IV Legion_. It was the way the ranking command structure of the Centralian Army worked; each Legion was divided into a varying number of cohorts—usually around five to seven. Each cohort, in turn, was divided into four smaller companies of one hundred men each, on average. Added to those main infantry cohorts were the Legion's auxiliaries; there was a cavalry regiment and the logistics groups. The _X Legion_ also had artillery and its respective personnel required to operate it, but the artillery was exclusive only to that particular legion.

Each company was commanded by a centurion, and the most senior centurion of a cohort commanded the First Company of that cohort, and by default the _entire_ cohort. Each of the other three lesser centurions in the cohort were subordinate to the centurion of the First Company. The centurion who was the First Company Commander of the _1__st_ Cohort was, in turn, the senior Centurion of the entire legion, and served as the legion General's second-in-command. This centurion was commonly referred to as the 'Eleven' by the rank and file—'eleven' standing for the two 'ones' of _First_ Company-_First_ Cohort, this centurion's designation.

The position of the Senior Centurion was not given to any lucky schmuck who happened to be in command of the double-first; the most experienced and able centurion was _purposefully_ placed in command of the double-first by the legion general. This was how Generals chose their second-in-commands.

"I know you. General Sinclair's Number Two," Athellenas said.

The _IV Legion_ senior centurion clasped his fist to his heart in a salute, giving a slight bow. "It is an honor, Warmaster."

"What is going on here? Who is that man, and how did he bypass our sentries?"

"We have no idea who he is," Sir Orestes shrugged. "He must have teleported in. He was beating six of my men into the next decade when we found him, but he keeps on saying he is not an enemy, that _he_ was attacked."

Athellenas glanced up and back over at the cloaked man. The man's face was partially obscured by the cowl of his cloak, but Athellenas was able to see it as the wind tousled the hood. It was the man's eyes—cold, stormy gray—that Athellenas recognized. The Warmaster gave a start as his mind flashed back to a chamber on Entrana, the holy island of Saradomin. Of course, the man had been dressed in the flowing blue and white robes of a Priori at that time…now he was clad only in a simple traveler's cloak with common clothing underneath.

"Tell your men to lower their weapons," Athellenas ordered Orestes.

"Warmaster?" Sir Orestes cast Athellenas a questioning glance.

"Centurion, I ordered you to have your men lower their weapons," Athellenas repeated himself. "Perhaps I was not clear enough?"

"Not at all, sir," Sir Orestes shook his head, turning on his heels to execute his latest order. "Alright, boys, put 'em down."

The ring of archers surrounding the cloaked man lowered their bows uncertainly, exchanging furtive glances with one another. The cloaked man had proven to be an adept fighter and therefore a significant threat, one which they were unwilling to dismiss right off the bat. Still, despite their lingering suspicions, they obeyed their centurion and lowered their weapons.

Athellenas dismounted, stepping past the wary archers, and approached the cloaked man, who in turn relaxed from his defensive stance. The Warmaster stopped a short distance from the man and faced him. He was silent for a few moments, scrutinizing the man. He knew who he thought the man was...but Athellenas had not seen him for over a decade. He had believed him to be dead. Finally, the Warmaster spoke to the man. "If I were to say to you that I am a stranger traveling from the East, seeking that which is lost…"

The cloaked man was silent for a few moments as he let the Warmaster's words sink in before realizing that he _remembered_ those words, as well as what the rest of the ancient proverb was. "…then I would reply that I am a stranger traveling from the West, it is _I_ whom you seek…" the cloaked man murmured in reply.

Athellenas smiled, his suspicions on the man's identity confirmed. "You still remember, Jerrod."

The Cleric returned the smile, recognizing the Warmaster as well. "Took me a moment, old friend. Ten years in a swamp didn't do wonders to my memory."


	8. Chapter 8: Setting Sail

Chapter Eight: Setting Sail

_**Jerrod**_

Father Jerrod expected many things to receive him as he materialized, but one thing he had _not_ expected was to be attacked without warning.

Teleportation had never been Jerrod's forte. The way it worked was still not fully understood; Jerrod knew that it involved using magical energies to temporarily morph the human body into pure energy, which was absorbed into the Anima Mundi and deposited at the appropriate destination, where the morphed energy was turned back into flesh, blood, and bone. At least, that was the general concept.

Whenever Jerrod teleported, he almost always felt nauseous at the other end. He did not know why; other wizards and magic-users he had spoken with on the matter had never had any complaints of nausea. Perhaps it simply came down to the randomness of birth.

Father Jerrod, for some reason he did not know, did not materialize in the market of Port Sarim, as he had originally planned. He had not been to that city for over fifteen years; perhaps his aim had become rusty over time. The Cleric shrugged; he recognized the countryside. He was only a league or so away from the port city. Not a very long walk; probably an hour at most.

What Father Jerrod _didn't_ remember about this part of the country was the still-burning campfire which he had materialized next to, and the six men who had built it were sitting around the flames, roasting their breakfasts.

The nearest man let out a surprised yelp, accidentally dropping his bacon into the fire. The next two men leapt to their feet and all-out tackled the Cleric, taking him down. Jerrod grunted as he was slammed into the ground, knocking his head back on the earth. His staff went flying as he went down; clattering to the ground, out of reach. For a moment he saw stars, but he shook his head, clearing it.

Jerrod lashed out at one of the men holding him, kneeing him near the groin and rolling him into his companion, heaving both men off. One soldier drew his sword and executed a clean, swift thrust aimed at Jerrod's leg—not a death wound, but an injury that would certainly make Jerrod stop.

The Cleric sidestepped the swipe and delivered a sharp blow to the attacker's wrist. While the soldier was temporarily fazed, Jerrod seized the man's hand and arm and tore his sword free. Jerrod whirled the sword through the air in an intricate pattern of twirls and cuts, almost like an entertainer with a baton.

With one soldier still clutching the fork of his legs and another cradling his fractured wrist, the other four soldiers all drew their own weapons, fanning out and circling the Cleric.

Jerrod raised his word and rested it laterally across the back of his neck. It was the _Qaresh_—a Menaphite defensive fighting stance. The Cleric carefully kept all four soldiers in his field of view, watching the subtle movements of their legs and fingers that unknowingly betrayed what their next moves were going to be.

When all four of the soldiers leaped forward to attack, Father Jerrod tightened his grip on his sword and reciprocated. The soldiers ended up cutting through empty air. The Cleric wove his way around the soldiers, moving from one foot to the other in a fluid dance. His sword flashed in the morning sun as he slashed and parried the soldiers' blades.

The Cleric had obviously trained with a sword for several decades; he moved almost too fast for the human eye to follow. In less than ten seconds, the Cleric had disarmed the four men, and was holding one of them at swordpoint, touching the tip of the blade to the soldier's neck.

Shouts and cried arose from the woods as others heard the sounds of Jerrod's fight. Within a minute, three or four dozen men had sprinted out of the trees, all of them armed to the teeth. Ten of the men sported longbows crafted from yew wood. They all knocked arrows and formed a ring around the Cleric, keeping at a safe distance.

"Drop the blade," one of the archers commanded. "Drop it, or we'll shoot!"

"I am not your enemy, gentlemen," Father Jerrod grunted. To back his earlier statement up, he lowered the blade and dropped it onto the ground, where it landed with a dull _thunk_. "I don't need steel to defend myself, anyway."

"_What the hell is going on here?_" a distant voice shouted through the trees. Murmurings and replies were hollered out in response, but the owner of the voice paid them no heed. A man clad in battered, grimy armor that had once been polished and smooth stepped into the clearing that Jerrod had teleported into. The red plume cresting his helmet identified him as a centurion.

The centurion took in the situation in a single glance, seeing the battered and bruised soldiers who had attacked Jerrod, and then seeing the Cleric himself, standing in the centre of the clearing without a scratch. The man's hand fell to the pommel of his sword, but he did not unsheathe the weapon. Instead, he spoke to the intruder. "State your name and purpose."

"My name is Jerrod. My purpose is my business, and mine alone."

The centurion now drew his sword and took a step towards the Cleric. "I do not believe that you are in any position to be calling the shots, Stranger. If you refuse to cooperate with me, then I shall have you bound and interrogated by our Paladin."

Jerrod cocked an eyebrow. "Well, your Paladin is welcome to kiss my-"

Jerrod's potentially profane suggestion was cut short by the sound of pounding hooves. Another figure galloped on horseback into the clearing. The horse was a lean, supple stallion, dappled gray and white in color. Its rider was clad in steel alloy armor that was a reddish rust color, made so by the expert craftsmen who had forged the armor several decades ago. The man was broad-shouldered and thick-chested, built like a brick. He had a strong, square jaw which was obscured by a gray beard that was starting to become bushy. The man's helm covered most of his face; the Y-shaped opening in the helm's faceplate exposed only his eyes and part of his mouth.

Even so, there was something familiar about the man. His posture, the way he walked, his eyes…Jerrod was certain he remembered those stormy gray irises from some point of time in his past. Who was this man?

The man on horseback asked the centurion his name, and the man in the red-plumed helmet replied, "Orestes, sir. Royal Knight of the Eighth Order. First Company, First Cohort."

_First Company, First Cohort_. That made Jerrod's other eyebrow slide up to join its partner. This meant that the centurion, Orestes, was the second-in-command of his legion, whichever one it was.

"I know you. General Sinclair's Number Two," the bearded man on horseback remarked. The two men continued their conversation in hushed tones. Jerrod could tell that the older man on horseback was asking who he was and what he was doing here. What _else_ would he be asking?

The two men seemed to get into a brief argument for a second—the man on horseback said something to the centurion, but the centurion, Orestes, hesitated, turning back to the man on horseback and no doubt asking him to repeat his order. The man on horseback cleared his throat and murmured a reply. Whatever it was, it was enough to make the centurion stand up straight at immediate attention.

The centurion gave a quick, curt nod, and turned back to his men. He took a breath and barked, "Alright, boys, put 'em down."

With that, the ring of archers surrounding the Cleric warily lowered their longbows, removing Jerrod from the imminent threat of death by hail of arrows.

The man on horseback scrutinized Jerrod for the first time. The Cleric did not even twitch under his gaze. The man on horseback folded his reigns and dismounted, swinging himself down and out of the saddle, landing on both feet. He strode past the archers and approached the Cleric, coming to a stop several feet away.

Jerrod, in turn, relaxed from his defensive posture, lowering his hands and standing up straight.

The bearded man in the rust-red armor was silent for at least a full minute, studying the Cleric, seeing what he could glean from the Saradominist warrior through sheer observation. After he had had his fill, however, he began to speak.

"If I were to say to you that I am a stranger traveling from the East, seeking that which is lost…" the man said, his voice trailing off after he said '_lost_'. He did not say anything after this; he obviously wanted Jerrod to speak, to see if the Cleric knew what to say.

The words lanced straight through Jerrod's mind, cutting through his years spent in the Virid Swamp. Suddenly, Jerrod knew this man. He recognized him, remembered his name, and all the adventures they had had together, back before he had become Warmaster and before Jerrod had become a Priori. Those words were the first words that man had ever spoken to the Cleric when they had first met many years ago, on a joint mission between the Centralian Army and the Church of Saradomin. It had been a two-part code; the first part would be given as an interrogative, while the second part would be the confirmation.

Jerrod knew exactly what to say as a response. "…then I would reply that I am a stranger traveling from the West, it is _I_ whom you seek…" the Cleric murmured in reply.

The red-armored man gave a wide, toothy grin, displaying two rows of yellowish-white teeth. "You still remember, Jerrod," he remarked.

"Took me a while, old friend," the Cleric replied, his own mouth curving up in a smile as well. "Ten years in a swamp didn't do wonders for my memory."

"You…er…you _know_ this man?" Sir Orestes asked, incredulous of this new turn of events.

"You and your men are dismissed, Orestes," Athellenas waved the centurion away. "You and your men's swift reactions to this situation are laudable, and I shall instruct the quartermasters to give each of you an extra ration of rum. Go, now; go and pack up your gear. It is time to leave this place."

"Warmaster," Sir Orestes bowed his head, clasping his fist to his heart in a salute before turning on his heel and marching off back towards the encampment. His men all saluted Athellenas as well before filing away after their senior centurion.

Athellenas was left alone in the clearing with his old friend. "I thought you were dead," the Warmaster finally said, breaking the silence.

"Sorry to disappoint," Jerrod chuckled.

Athellenas's expression did not change. "You dropped off the face of the earth for ten years, Jerrod. _Ten years_. I had no idea what happened to you, and the Church kept mum about you. Not a peep out of the old bastards."

"Well, there's a good reason for that," Jerrod chuckled. "The Priori excommunicated me. Didn't exactly like me saying that Zamorak was coming back for a healthy helping of their asses."

"They _what?_ They _excommunicated_ you-"

"Oh, don't get your britches in a bunch," Jerrod harrumphed, giving Athellenas a dismissive wave. "That was ten years ago. I've been living in the Virid Swamp ever since."

"Then why come out now?"

"Oh, I wasn't planning to," the Cleric shrugged. "But then _He_ gave me a job."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm completely serious," the Cleric countered, his expression remaining serious and solemn.

"You're telling me that Saradomin himself made a house-call to you?"

"Heh," Father Jerrod snorted. "Well, more of a hut-call, but yeah, you have the gist of it. On another note, what say we sit down somewhere and have a drink? I for one am not exactly intending to spend the next four years chatting in this forest."

Athellenas bent down and picked up Jerrod's staff, which the Cleric had dropped during his fight with the _IV Legion_ sentries. "This the same old stick that you made all those years ago?" the Warmaster asked as he started to make his way out of the clearing back towards the encampment, shaking the staff for emphasis.

"That _stick_ happens to be the very best elemental staff I've ever made," Jerrod retorted haughtily. "That, as well as the fact that it's one of the only staffs in existence that can invoke all four elements. I _try _not to boast, though."

"You dragged me to all four of those sodding elemental temples to charge the thing up; it had damned well _better_ be the best staff you've ever made," Athellenas grunted.

"Well, it can accomplish much more than that blue piece of rust you've taken a liking to," Jerrod shrugged.

Athellenas drew his sword, angling it so that the blue runite metal caught the sunlight. "Insult me all you want, but leave my sword out of this," the Warmaster chuckled. He quickly inspected the blade while it was out and rubbed off a small spot of dirt before returning it to its sheath. He tossed the staff back to Jerrod once he was finished.

Jerrod caught the staff, twirling it into an offensive position. As the staff sliced through the air, Jerrod let out a guttural cry. The tip of his staff glowed red for a moment and a gout of flame burst forth from the Cleric's outstretched hand, incinerating some of the underbrush at his feet. The Cleric straightened back up, raising a questioning eyebrow at the Warmaster.

"Well, your time in the swamp doesn't seem to have dulled your old skill," Athellenas observed.

"_Sharpened_, actually," Jerrod corrected, stepping over the smoldering plantlife.

The woods cleared away as the two men stepped into the outskirts of the encampment of the 1st Element. A cacophony of noise was enveloping the whole place as the thousands of men who were camped there proceeded to break camp; tearing down tents, packing up gear, getting ready to move. Sir Derren had gotten them all moving, just like he had promised.

Athellenas and Jerrod picked their way through the mess of soldiers, exchanging a polite nod and salute every now and then as the men noticed their Warmaster walking by.

"So…uh…" Jerrod cleared his throat, "what's with the party?" the Cleric asked, gesturing to the scene all around him. "Going to the desert, I'm assuming?"

"Yes, we've heard reports of Zamorakian forces under Thammaron attacking the…" Athellenas was saying until he stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing in a frown. "Wait, how did _you_ know we were going to the desert?"

"Friends in high places," Jerrod reminded the Warmaster, glancing up at the sky. "_Very_ high places."

"Right," Athellenas nodded, remembering that Jerrod had spoken with Saradomin. The God of Light, Athellenas was sure, probably had a fair idea of what the Centralian Army was up to.

"I'm going to the desert as well," Jerrod told Athellenas. "Saradomin is sending me there to find someone in Ullek…I figure I'll hitch a ride with you."

"Why don't you just teleport your way into Ullek?" Athellenas asked.

"Can't," the Cleric shrugged. "Something blocks me every time I try. I can't get into the desert at all. I heard there were a handful of you brutes-I'm sorry, I meant _soldiers_-here at Port Sarim, so I figured I'd try my luck here and sail my way in."

"Can't fault you there," Athellenas shrugged, turning to step through the space in between two half-collapsed tents. "Though I must warn you; we are not going to Ullek. We are sailing up the River Lum and deploying into the northern desert. The Menaphites are being hit hardest there."

"Well, that's no problem," Jerrod shrugged. "I'll have to split with you later on, though."

Athellenas grunted in reply as he reached his tent. The old Warmaster swiftly collapsed the tent, bundling the cloth up into a tight ball which he stuffed into one of his horse's saddlebags.

"Is that Onyx?" Jerrod inquired, nodding towards the dappled white and gray steed.

"Mm-hm," Athellenas murmured, circling around to Onyx's front and scratching under his neck, giving the horse an affectionate ruffling of the hair. "Though I'd imagine he's grown up a bit since you last saw him."

"Well, he's certainly not the freezing newborn colt we found in the woods all those years ago, anymore, no," Jerrod agreed.

Athellenas finished rolling up his gear, making sure it was all secured to his saddle. "Walk with me," the Warmaster said to his old friend. He turned and began to head back through what remained of the encampment, leading Onyx by his reigns.

Jerrod followed Athellenas as the Warmaster briefly met with the generals of the I, IV, and X Legions, finalizing their plans for moving the 1st Element to the desert. All of the infantry was going to be sailing with the Navy, as well as the non-combat personnel and the artillerists. The cannons would take too long to be hauled overland, so they earned a spot on the ships as well. The cavalry of all three legions, however, was going to ride hard and fast to the east. They would meet back up with the main host at the River Lum.

Sir Havarell, the middle-aged knight from the city of Avarrocka whom Athellenas had appointed as the overall commander of the 1st Element's cavalry, was busy rounding up all of the horsemen, preparing to set off towards the River Lum across the hills and forests that lay between there and Port Sarim.

By the time he was finished meeting with his subordinates, the huge encampment was finally completely broken down. A thin layer of smog hung over the area, a result of the extinguishing of hundreds of cooking fires. It was no matter, though; the wind would blow it all away in no time.

Athellenas and Jerrod were on their way out of the site of the encampment when they were stopped by a holler from behind.

"Hold, there!"

"Oh, _hellfire_…" Father Jerrod muttered. "I know that voice…"

"Hm?" Athellenas turned around, watching as none other than Paladin Anesti approached him and Jerrod on horseback.

"_You_," Anesti's brow wrinkled in a frown as he regarded Jerrod, drawing up alongside him.

"Ah, Anesti, old friend," Jerrod chuckled, flashing the Paladin a forced smile. "Out for the scenery?"

"You are _excommunicatem_."

"_Really?_" Jerrod's eyes widened and he covered his mouth in a mock-gasp. "I was excommunicated? My God, I nearly forgot!"

"Your attempts at humor do you no favors," Anesti replied, his voice remaining static. "You have sinned against Saradomin and therefore your words are as dust and ashes in my ears. Your deeds and actions are as smoke in the-"

Jerrod interrupted the Paladin with a loud, overplayed yawn. "Yeah, I know, I've heard it all before; I'm unholy, I'm unclean, I'm blasphemous, blah, blah, blah," the Cleric rolled his eyes and stopped, staring right into Anesti's eyes. "I'm here doing the bidding of Saradomin himself. He has spoken with me, Paladin. Has He ever spoken with _you_, I wonder?"

Anesti's eyes narrowed. "You lie."

"Do I, Anesti? Do I?"

Paladin Anesti pursed his lips, straightening up high in his saddle. "You mar His honor by invoking His name in your lies."

The Cleric tightened his grip on his elemental staff and steadily wielded it like a quarterstaff, holding it towards the center, turning to his side, and aiming the orb end at the top towards the Paladin on horseback. "Do you wish to challenge me, Paladin?" Father Jerrod asked calmly.

Anesti's eyes flicked between the Cleric and his staff. The Paladin hesitated, uncertain. The Cleric had been alone in a swamp for ten years, sure…but there was something about Jerrod's stance that unnerved him. The Paladin could tell from a single glance that Jerrod could probably kill him without even breaking a sweat. Wisely, Anesti decided to back down.

"I will have my eye on you," the Paladin warned. With that, he reigned in his steed and kicked off, galloping away into the woods, heading back towards the main host.

"Typical Anesti," Jerrod sighed. "Always needs to have the last word." The Cleric then shrugged and turned back to Athellenas, resuming their walk towards Port Sarim.

"Old friends, I'm assuming?" Athellenas chuckled.

"_Friend_ is an extremely generous term," Jerrod replied. "The two of us, we…well, let's just say we never got along. Just my luck that I'd find him here. Of course…" the Cleric's eyes lit up with a malicious gleam as a new thought presented itself to him. "Of course, I suppose _he_ is in for a big slap in the face if he seeks to influence you."

"Oh, the Paladin and I have already had our first exchange," Athellenas assured the Cleric. "I made sure that it was…memorable for him."

"I'll bet."

Within the next ten minutes, the centurions had all of their companies organized and drawn into formation. Supplies were loaded up and gear was stowed away as the 1st Element finally started to move, beginning the hour-long march to Port Sarim. The 1st Element's cavalry, under Sir Havarell, had already departed.

Athellenas found a mule for Jerrod to ride. The Warmaster rode atop Onyx alongside the Cleric, keeping position at the head of the long column of the 1st Element's soldiers. Eventually, Sir Derren worked his way up to the head of the advance. The young knight exchanged a brief nod with Athellenas as he drew abreast of the Warmaster before he noticed Jerrod.

"Pardon me, but I do not believe we have met," Sir Derren said to Jerrod.

"Jerrod, this is Derren of Elris, Royal Knight of Centralia," Athellenas introduced Sir Derren to the Cleric. "He serves as my second-in-command. Well, more student than second-in-command, technically, but that is just a detail."

"The pleasure is mine, sir," Sir Derren offered Jerrod a polite bow.

"Is it really?" Jerrod cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "That's got to be the first time someone's said that to me in fifteen years."

When Sir Derren seemed at a loss for words, Athellenas jumped in. "He takes some getting used to," the Warmaster murmured to his subordinate. "He used to be a Priori of Entrana, you know."

"A Priori?" Derren's eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise. The sharp-tongued, eccentric older man in the traveler's cloak did not seem anything remotely like those dry, solemn, serious old men who were in charge of Entrana. "_You?_"

"Don't exactly fit the mould, eh?" Jerrod grunted, gesturing to himself.

"Not at all."

"That's one of the biggest compliments you could have ever given me, son," Jerrod chuckled. "Thank you."

The citizens of Port Sarim did not live by a strict routine; theirs was a society that lived based on how kind Mother Nature chose to be to them each day. However, all semblance of routine was completely shattered by roughly ten thousand soldiers marching through their streets to the docks to meet with the score of naval vessels that had just made port.

Citizens gathered along the roads to watch as the soldiers and knights passed by. There were exclamations of "Good luck, boys!" and "Give 'em hell!" from the crowds. That amused Athellenas, mostly because he knew that a good portion of these men and women probably had no idea what he and his men were going off to fight.

Nevertheless, it did lighten the soldiers' spirits. The legionnaires waved back and grinned.

One small child—a girl of probably no more than eight or nine years—stepped out onto the street, gazing up at Athellenas. She held up a small flower—a spiritweed flower—to the Warmaster.

Athellenas reached down and took the spiritweed flower, a small grin emerging on his face as he examined it. In return, he reached into one of his saddlebags and drew out a speckled-blue Karamja apple from Onyx's feeding bag. They were rare fruits, but the Warmaster had more than enough of them to feed his horse. They would be a good treat.

"Thank you," the Warmaster said to the young girl. In return, he gave her the Karamja apple. "This fruit here will make the best pie you'll ever eat, and that's a promise."

Athellenas looked away before he could see the girl's reaction. He had never been good around kids; they made him uncomfortable. All the same, he tucked the green-blue spiritweed flower into his armor chestpiece so that it rested over his heart. Maybe it would bring him luck in the days ahead.

Athellenas was the first to reach the docks. A large frigate was moored at the very end of the pier, its crew hard at work preparing the ship for passengers. Dozens of other naval vessels were moored all over the rest of the docks, doing the same thing.

A shorter man with a long black two-forked beard stood on the gangplank, waiting to receive the Warmaster. He was clad in the uniform of a high-ranking officer, complete with silver epaulettes and a tricorne hat. He looked almost like the image of a pirate, minus the eyepatch and parrot.

"Warmaster Athellenas!" the naval officer called out to the Warmaster as Athellenas trotted up towards him. "A pleasure as always, my friend."

"Likewise, Admiral," Athellenas replied.

Admiral Straume, Fleetmaster of the Centralian Navy, smiled. "Well, don't just stand there gawking," he said, turning to walk back up the gangplank. "Don't you have a Demon Lord to kill?"


	9. Chapter 9: More Questions

Chapter Nine: More Questions

_**Avis**_

"…I think it's time I explained where you came from."

Avis cocked a curious eyebrow at Farrah. "You always said that you found me in a slum," the pale-skinned boy said.

"A small lie," Farrah, the old Menaphite man who owned the defunct antique store upstairs, admitted to the boy. "Not the truth. I did not find you in a slum. I didn't even find you in this city-"

"Where did I come from, Farrah?" Avis interrupted the old man, quickly starting to grow impatient with the old man's reticence. This was his origin that the old man was hinting at; anything short of cutting straight to the chase was unacceptable.

"I do not know, child," Farrah replied.

"But you just said-"

"_Peace,_" Farrah held up a hand, quelling the boy from speaking any further. "Your arrival into this place was both mystifying and unnatural, to put it mildly. It happened ten years ago—you were a newborn infant when I…_found_ you. I was on my way to Ullek from Uzer in the north, traveling by camel, when it happened."

"When _what_ happened?"

"A bright flash of light…" Farrah murmured, his eyes growing distant as the memories of that night came back to him. "It was in the middle of the night…the stars were out, as well as the full moon… There was a flash of light, bright enough to light up the night sky for miles. I was alone at the time, though; no one else ever saw it. Just me."

"What was it?"

"I looked up…and I saw a falling star," Farrah explained. "Not any normal falling star, though; this one was blood-red and blazing like a sun that had gone nova…it was painful to look at, but I didn't break eye contact. I watched as it descended from the heavens and crashed into the far side of the dune ahead of me. So, I spurred my camel on and hurried over that dune to the crash site… Smoke was still rising from the area. Sand had melted to glass in some places, and there were black scoring marks in a perfect pattern all around the point of impact. There were no rock fragments, however; nothing solid. Just burns, glassed sand, and…and _you_."

Avis's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Come again?"

"You were a tiny infant, pale as you are today," Farrah recalled, momentarily pausing to take a sip of wine before continuing. "You were lying right in the centre of the blast, staring up at the sky. You were completely unharmed…you weren't even crying, for heaven's sake; you were just…lying there…"

A brief silence fell between the two after Farrah finished speaking until Avis broke it, saying, "So, let me get this straight… You're riding through the desert one night, then some freak-show comet slams into the ground, and _POOF_; I just appear?"

"That is a very crude way of explaining it, but yes," Farrah conceded. "As you already know, your name, _Avinius_, means 'of the Heavens'. I did not choose that name at random; you are, quite literally, of the Heavens."

Avis was silent for a full minute, taking the time to digest this new series of revelations. The boy did not doubt Farrah's word, but, all the same, a small part of his mind still found it hard to believe. Anyone telling another person that he had been found in the middle of the crash site of a fiery, unnatural falling star would automatically be assumed to be insane.

Then again, Farrah had absolutely no reason to lie about this, no reason at all. Avis studied the old man carefully, but he found no deception in Farrah's eyes, face, or body. The old man had to be telling the truth. Farrah just never really had it in him to tell an outright lie on this scale.

"Well, that's…um…" Avis murmured quietly, searching for the words that would not come to his mouth, "That's very…_interesting_, and all, but…well, that really doesn't tell me anything about where I came from, or who I am."

"You already know _who_ you are," Farrah countered. "You are Avinius of Ullek. You are _you_; nothing changes that, no matter what the truth may be."

"I mean am I _human?_" Avis sighed. "I know my identity as an individual, but what am I? _Normal_ people don't come screaming into this world in a falling star, you know."

Farrah did not reply right away. Instead, the old man blew a smoke ring from his Badb pipe and sat quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He rocked back and forth in his chair, his mouth twitching every few seconds as if he had something he wanted to say, but wasn't sure _how_ he should say it. Avis did not press the old man; the boy had learned by now that Farrah would speak when he saw fit, not when an impatient ten-year-old decided to pester him for answers.

After another minute or so, Farrah finally rose from his seat. "Walk with me," he said to the boy.

Avis got up and followed Farrah up the stairs to the antique shop on street-level above. The old man then scaled the ladder in his shop's backroom that led up to the rooftops.

It was night outside. The full moon was out, illuminating everything in a pale half-light. There were a few wispy clouds hanging in the star-studded sky, the moonlight making them glow a strange shade of gray. Below the sky, in the world of men, the lights of Ullek cast a dull aura into the sky, but not bright enough to dampen out the stars.

Farrah walked down along the rooftops, puffing on his pipe. These were the same rooftops he had once run across and through when he had been in his prime. His thieving days had been the best days of his life, Farrah recalled, his laughter lines accentuating themselves as the memories of his youth came to him. The days of thieving were always the best days of the lives of former-thieves who never get caught. It was impossible to find the adrenaline rush of evading guards anywhere else, except in war.

"I don't know," Farrah admitted finally, breaking the silence after he had walked a short distance. He did not make eye contact with Avis; he just kept on walking along the rooftops.

"What?" Avis asked, nearly startled by the old man's sudden resumption of the earlier conversation.

"If you are Human," Farrah clarified, turning to look down at the boy. "I do not know."

"If I'm not Human, then what the heck _am_ I?" Avis began to raise his voice, starting to lose patience with Farrah. The old man's slow way of talking was really starting to chafe with the boy's lightning-fast personality. "What can I be? I mean, I'm definitely not a dwarf because I'm normal-sized; I'm no elf because my ears aren't freakishly big and pointed; I didn't have wings, last time I checked, so I'm not an Iceyene...you catch my drift?"

"Well…I don't know. All I know is that you do many things normal humans cannot," Farrah said. "You have lived in the desert your entire life, and yet your skin is still as pale as it was when you were born. You should be at least tan or brown right now, but your skin never darkened under the sun. Even more than that; you have never once gotten sunburn. That is very unnatural."

"Okay, so I'm pale as the moon," Avis shrugged. "What's wrong with that? I guess that makes me, what, a vampyre?"

"I wouldn't discount it," Farrah said, his tone completely serious. "However, that is, nevertheless, highly unlikely. You do not seem to have had any particular craving for blood, nor any aversion to sunlight, both of which traits are rather commonly found in vampyres," Farrah paused, raising an eyebrow at the boy, asking, "Unless I'm wrong?"

Avis shook his head _no_.

Farrah continued after Avis's response. "That's what I thought. The color of your skin, however, is subject to conjecture. Amidst many other attributes that you possess, your ability to invoke magic without the use and assistance of runestones is…well, the best term to describe it would be 'impossible,' but you are living disproof of that statement. It has been impossible for anyone to cast magic without runestones…except for you, somehow."

"Why do people need runestones?" Avis asked. "I mean, why do you need a hunk of rock just to be able to do _this_-" as he spoke, the boy flicked his wrist towards a pile of rubbish heaped on the edge of the building they were traversing. A thin, concentrated burst of wind slammed into the rubbish heap, sending it flying over the edge and into the streets.

"Do you understand how magic works?" Farrah posed the question to Avis, continuing when the only response he received was a shrug. "Well, I am not going to explain it to you; that is going to be the job of someone else. However, I will tell you that human beings, as well as most other living creatures, are not sources of magic; they are mere manipulators of it. Runestones contain the pure elemental energy that we need to produce magic, without which we are powerless. That you are able to cast magic, to invoke the energy of the element of Air without having an energy source on hand is…well, it should be impossible. It _should_ be. But somehow, with you…it isn't."

Avis shrugged again, turning back to face front. "So…what happens now?" he asked.

"I have prayed with every fiber of my being that it was not going to be you…but I can see now that I was just deluding myself…" Farrah sighed wearily and stopped walking, stopping at the edge of a particularly tall mansion roof, staring out over the market square. "Avinius…you have a job to do."

"Hm?" Avis grunted as he drew up next to the old man.

"There is a divine prophecy that speaks of the end of this world as we know it," Farrah explained. "It's very complicated; explaining it is, again, the job of someone else—an old acquaintance of mine."

"What's this prophecy-thing have to do with me?"

Farrah turned and looked Avis straight in the eye. "You, Avis; you're the one who is going to bring the God Wars to an end. If you do not…then Saradomin and Zamorak will destroy this world in their hatred of each other. The energies they release when they do battle with each other…the world cannot handle it. This cannot happen."

"I _what?_" Avis's eyes widened in shock, and then denial. "No, no, you've got the wrong kid," he babbled, "I mean, yeah, okay, sure; maybe I can blow some wind around with my mind; nothing special, though! I can't fight Gods!"

"Not _yet_," Farrah countered. "I suspect your full powers are dormant right now. My guess would be that you have some limited use of Air because it is the first of the four elements, and because of your prolonged exposure to concentrations of the Anima Mundi-Ullek being one of the most populous cities in the world and therefore being a large nexus of life energy."

"I think…" Avis started to sway, his pale face becoming even paler. The boy dropped to his haunches, hanging his head between his knees to get the blood flow started back up again. "Oh, _man_, this has been one hell of a night…"

"You must understand; we were going to wait until you were older to reveal this to you," Farrah sighed. He ran a hand through his wispy white hair, blowing another smoke ring into the night sky. "But recent events have…accelerated our plans. Jafa's news of Zamorak attacking the Empire from the north leaves us with little time."

Avis looked up. "Time for what?"

"An old acquaintance of mine is on his way," Farrah replied. "He will take you under his wing. He will be your teacher; from him, you shall learn the ways of the mage. He will also have your dormant powers awakened…at least, he told me he would. He said he had a hunch that your powers could be awakened by taking you to the-"

"You're taking me away from my home?" Avis interrupted, grasping the underlying meaning of Farrah's words. "You're making me _leave_ Ullek?"

"Avinius…" Farrah sighed again, leaning down and placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Avinius, Zamorak's foul hordes are heading right for this place. Soon there will not _be_ an Ullek. When my friend arrives, you must go with him. If you remain here…Zamorak's forces will capture you, and then the Dark One himself will give you his personal attention."

"I'm assuming that's a bad thing?"

"If Zamorak ever gets you in his clutches, you will do whatever he wants you to do. His powers are…" Farrah shuddered. "We are vermin to Zamorak. Inconsequential. The fact that he is taking a particular interest in _you_ is…not good. Unprecedented, really; he cares nothing for mortals. We must keep you away from him at all costs."

"But what does he want with _me?_ What could I possibly do to him that would-"

"According to the prophecy, you can bring the war to an end," Farrah shrugged. "Naturally, Zamorak wants two things: either to kill you, so that you do not end the war in Saradomin's favor; or to capture you and twist your soul into serving him. Neither of these options will be particularly pleasant for you."

A bird flew past, silently gliding through the cool night air, silhouetted by the stars and moonlight. Avis and Farrah watched it go for a moment, giving them reprieve from their conversation. For a moment, at least.

"Avinius…I know that what I ask of you is not an easy thing," Farrah sympathized with the boy, crouching down next to him. "But it _is_ necessary. You have every right to drop everything and run away; and if you choose to do that, I will not stop you. But this world _needs_ you, Avinius. All of us need you. The balance of the Anima Mundi has been tipped in Saradomin's favor for the past six hundred years; now it is falling back towards Zamorak. If Zamorak wins the war, this world will burn, Avinius. We are going to need you."

Avis had nothing to say. All he could do was sit there on the edge of the building, staring out over the city, deep in his own thoughts.

Suddenly, a loud horn sounded somewhere off in the southern reaches of Ullek, followed by a cacophony of bells ringing furiously through the night. That was the defense alarm, sounded when a threat to the city was near. Because it had originated from the south, the threat, whatever it was, was most likely approaching from off the coast of the southern ocean. Pirates, perhaps.

Farrah knew better. The old man stiffened at the sound of the alarms. Farrah had never had any magical prowess, but he was what most mages would call 'sensitive'. He could easily attune himself to the energy of the world around him. He sensed a disturbance in the Anima Mundi. He could feel it in the wind.

"We must go," the old man said to Avis, "It has begun."


	10. Chapter 10: Sailin' High

Chapter Ten: Sailin' High

_**Athellenas**_

_Stay! Stay! You saucy sailor boy,__  
__Do not sail afar;__  
__I love you and will marry you,__  
__You silly Jack tar!_

_'Twas but to tease I answered so,__  
__I thought you could guess__  
__That when a maiden answers no__  
__She always means yes!_

It was suppertime, the most festive of times for any crew of Centralian sailors. The main hold of the Centralian naval flagship, the _Resolute_, was choc-full of jovial sailors and infantry soldiers from the 1st Element, half-finished tankards of mead, and enough seasoned food to make even the most obstinate of men lick their lips.

Warmaster Athellenas shouted out the words to the chorus of the old sea shanty at the top of his lungs, not caring if he was off-pitch. Hell, none of the sailors were, so why should he bother? His voice was only one of hundreds.

The ship's bosun, a grizzled old gent from the Aippolos Islands, would sing each verse of the shanty in his guttural, gravelly tones. After each verse, every single soul on board the _Resolute_ would roar out the chorus, pounding the planked floors and tables with their feet and fists.

Jerrod was sanding on top of one of the tables, leaning against a support beam, fervently strumming a lute, providing the shanty with its much-needed background music. He was joined by two other crewmen; one playing a reed-flute, and the other beating a set of Karamja bongos. The resulting music from the three instruments mingled and blended with itself, and then infused itself into the words of the shanty.

Athellenas grabbed his tankard of mead from the table, thrusting it up into the air as the soldiers and sailors began roaring out the shanty's chorus again. The food on the _Resolute_ was fairly good by normal standards, which meant _very_ good by military standards, but the mead…the mead the sailors kept stored in the flagship's hold was phenomenal.

There was a pleasant buzzing in the Warmaster's head by the time he finished singing this chorus. The lamps were flickering, casting perpetually-moving shadows all over the place. Athellenas did not feel overwhelmed by the constant music and the rowdy behavior of his soldiers; quite the opposite, in fact.

Today was the last day of the two-week-long voyage over the high seas from Port Sarim to Aqatios, a small Menaphite port town situated on the River Lum. Tomorrow morning, the Centralian fleet would make port at Aqatios and Athellenas's army would disembark. Tomorrow was going to be the first day in a long, potentially bloody march south through the Menaphite Empire.

King Osman, the monarch of Centralia, had been receiving increasingly disturbing reports from the Menaphite Pharaoh about hordes of monsters sweeping through the Menaphite desert. Athellenas had orders from King Osman to assist in the possible defense of Uzer, the Menaphite capital. The catch was that Zamorackian hordes had already swept through the northern reaches of the desert. Athellenas would have to fight his way south, find a way to break through the Shantay Pass, and find another way to cross the Elid River. Only after he accomplished all of that could he reach Uzer, and he would potentially be stuck fighting off waves of monsters in the process. It was not going to be an easy campaign.

As such, earlier in the day Athellenas had issued orders to all of his commanders to allow the soldiers to act outside of regulations throughout the night. The Warmaster was certain that there were parties and feasts just like this one going on in all of the other ships in the fleet.

The festivities were not just for fun; Athellenas ordered them to happen because he knew that tonight was going to be the last night his soldiers would be able to slack off without any major consequences. If they slacked off and let loose in the days ahead, they would die. They knew that. This was their chance to 'let it all out'.

As Athellenas downed his current tankard of mead, the ship's bosun finished the final verse of the shanty he had been singing, ending with a fierce chord procession from Jerrod's lute.

"And now, my esteemed, muscle-headed, overcompensating brutes—I'm sorry, I mean _soldiers,_" Jerrod mock corrected himself as he addressed the crowd in the hold. The good-natured insult sparked an uproar of _boo_s. A hail of half-eaten fruit and pieces of food sailed through the air towards Jerrod, but the Cleric—who had already grabbed his elemental staff before saying his joke—simply raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

The orb that formed the top of Jerrod's staff glowed white and the incoming food was deflected, splattering back to the floor. Jerrod only got a speck of potatoes on his tunic. He calmly brushed it off and continued to speak.

"My esteemed soldiers, I now present to you, for your entertainment, enjoyment, titillation—whatever you wish to call it—a sight you will likely never see again in this world!"

The hold quieted down a bit. Not completely; it would have taken a miracle to bring silence to a ship's hold full of borderline out-of-control soldiers, but it quieted down enough to actually notice a difference in volume.

Jerrod stepped off of the table and crouched down out of sight for a moment before returning to the table with a red mahogany fiddle.

"_Oh, great_…" Athellenas whispered, grabbing another tankard of mead from the table he was sitting at.

"Your great, noble Warmaster, over there," Jerrod motioned towards Athellenas with his lute, "Before he became the honorable old bore he is today, he used to be one _hell_ of a fiddle-player!"

Laughter rolled through the hold, accompanied by men banging on the tables, calling for a song.

"Now, I know that he would absolutely _love_ to play a song for all of you degenerates!" Jerrod continued. "What do you think?"

The soldiers in the main hold all cheered, waving their tankards of mead around in the air, shouting for their commander to go up.

"Come on, Warmaster, do it!" the men who were also sitting at Athellenas's table encouraged him.

Athellenas glanced over at Sir Derren at the next table down, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Derren merely grinned and gave a nod in response. Athellenas sighed, turning back to his tankard of mead. He downed it in three gulps, then steadily rose to his feet, grabbing another tankard as he got up.

The soldiers started clapping and stomping their feet, riled up by Athellenas's compliance.

The Warmaster drank from his latest tankard of mead as he stumbled forward through the maze of tables, naval personnel, and soldiers, being careful to avoid stepping on food, broken glass, or passed-out men as he went. The buzzing in his head was still there, and his movements were not quite as coordinated as they usually were. Whenever he moved his arm, for example, it would always go a good length further than he wanted it to.

Athellenas reached Jerrod's table in the center of the hold. The Cleric extended a hand down to him, and he grabbed it, hauling himself up. "You'll pay for this later, you know," Athellenas grumbled to his old friend.

Jerrod's grin only widened about a millimeter in response. He held out the fiddle, waving the bow invitingly towards the Warmaster.

Athellenas took the bow and fiddle. He paused for a moment as the old feeling of the instrument gradually returned to him. He remembered back when he had been in his prime, the long nights around campfires that he had spent with Jerrod in the wilderness during missions, playing his old fiddle opposite Jerrod's lute.

The Warmaster plucked a few strings, making sure the fiddle was tuned. He placed the bow onto the fiddle strings and, after taking a quick breath, started to play. He went slow at first, but the melody quickly picked up and turned into a sharp, rousing tune. Jerrod's lute came in, providing the other half of the melody, which took Athellenas's already-good tune and brought it fully to life. Within seconds, the soldiers and sailors in the hold were all stomping their feet on the floor, banging their tankards to their tables—some were even lifting the tables and banging _them_ on the floor to keep up the beat.

_Ages come, ages go; hey nonny-nonny-ho!  
__Never was there a tale of more woe,  
__Than of the Noble Green Rabbit of long-ago!_

Athellenas belted out the words to one of the old bar tunes he and Jerrod always used to play together, not caring if he was off-key. Everyone in the hold was drunk to some degree; they wouldn't care.

Jerrod joined in, singing his own version of the harmony.

_Noble Green Rabbit was green as could be!  
__Never a rabbit as green as he!  
__All through the land, it was told;  
__He lived in a den made of gold…_

The song continued on, painting the strange tale of an intelligent rabbit with green fur which goes on to become king of its land. However, in the resulting arrogance that came from his receiving great power, he ends up losing his loved one—a rabbit with soft blue fur. He then proceeded to lead an army to take revenge…the whole song was very random and abstract. Athellenas personally had no idea how someone got it into his head to write a song about _rabbits_ for heaven's sake…but on the other hand, the tune was a very rousing one, and the words, however bizarre, went with it perfectly.

As Athellenas kept on playing, the buzzing in his head still did not go away. His vision began to play tricks on him; it looked sometimes as if it were drifting off to a side, or even tilting, before he realized that _he_ was the one who was tilting. More than once, he had to keep himself from sliding off the table.

_Thank Saradomin I'm not wearing my armor_… the Warmaster thought to himself as he began the next verse of _Noble Green Rabbit_.

* * *

Athellenas woke up to the creaking of the floorboards as the _Resolute_ bobbed through what felt like coastal breakers. A faint ray of daylight peeked through the openings in the ceiling that led up to the deck.

Athellenas groaned quietly to himself and pushed himself up off the floor. He clutched his skull as he stood up, fighting against the sudden bout of dizziness that overtook him. The festivities from last night had been one of the best he had ever had the honor to take part in, but _boy,_ oh boy; the price for such a night was particularly heavy the next morning.

Athellenas stumbled through the main hold, trying carefully not to stub his toe or step on anyone in the dark. Soldiers and sailors were everywhere; sleeping on the floor, splayed back in chairs; a few were even passed out on the tables. The Warmaster moved past them all and got to a ladder which led abovedecks, climbing his way up to the top.

It was the crack of dawn. A red sun was rising in the east, shooting the dark blue sky through with rays of scarlet and maroon. The reflection of the sunrise was dancing on the waves of the River Lum; stationary, and yet perpetually moving. It was very peaceful on deck at this time of day. The only sounds were the slight riffle of the sails catching the wind, the occasional _ting_ of the ship's bell, and the background creak of the planks as the ship bobbed through the waves.

The River Lum was huge, to be blunt. It would normally be considered a small sea—at its widest point, the river was ten miles across—the sole reason it was considered a river because it stretched all the way from the Southern Ocean to the Deep Wilderness in the north. It formed the eastern border of Centralia, separating the nation from the Menaphite Desert. The change in terrain was nearly shockingly sudden; one shore of the Lum was lush, green, and grassy, while the other was sand, palm trees, and rocks.

While the river's size posed an inconvenient travel time required to cross it, it was large enough to host a huge population of freshwater fish. Both Centralia and the Menaphite Empire had many villages built on the Lum's shore, making their livings off of those fish. In short, the pros of the river far outweighed the cons.

The Menaphite village of Aqatios was not far ahead; the fleet would probably reach it within the next six hours.

Athellenas pulled himself fully out of the opening in the deck, standing up to his full height, yawning and stretching as he regained his balance. He took a deep breath of fresh, river air, breathing in his nose and out his mouth. It did little to alleviate the splitting headache in his skull, but it helped.

A dozen or so sailors were lumbering around the deck, keeping the _Resolute_ from falling apart while the majority of its crew slept off their hangovers belowdecks. Athellenas trudged over to the wooden starboard rail and peered over the edge, watching the wake of the flagship as it slid effortlessly through the calm river waters.

The other ships in the fleet which was transporting Athellenas's 1st Element were all spread out to either side of and behind the _Resolute_. All of them were similarly quiet. For a moment, Athellenas wondered if it had been a bad idea after all to let the soldier get drunk the night before, but the Warmaster quickly shrugged off that doubt. Sure, maybe the men would not be top-notch fighters today, but they would not need to be; there were no reports of enemies in this area. The men might be miserable today, but last night would do a lot more good than bad. All the soldiers had to do was slog through the hangover of this morning.

"You really learned how to hold your liquor, old friend."

Athellenas did not have to turn around to know that it was Jerrod who had spoken. "How much did I have?" the Warmaster grunted, not moving to turn to face his friend.

"I don't know," Jerrod shrugged, joining Athellenas at the rail. "I stopped counting after your seventh or eighth tankard."

"_Saradomin's beard_…" Athellenas groaned, resting his head against the rail. "Well, what about you? You had just as much as me; why aren't _you_ trying to keep your head from falling off?"

Jerrod merely waved his staff, giving a boyish grin. "Water magic has its uses," the Cleric replied. "I pretty much forced the alcohol through my bowels and pissed it out five minutes later. Not exactly pleasant, but it spares me the hangover."

Athellenas hooted with laughter. "Using magic to make you…that's…oh, Jerrod, old friend, _how_ did you ever end up on Entrana with the rest of those dusty old bores? Other monks would probably consider ritualistic suicide for even _thinking_ of using magic like that."

"I thought I'd get to go rampaging through the land, smiting every drop of Zamorackian filth I stumbled across," Jerrod shrugged. "I'm sure you joined the Army thinking you'd get to wear shiny armor and sack cities, and do other fun crap like that."

"Well…" Athellenas chuckled, "I actually _have_ done those things."

"Oh, you _lucky_ thing," Jerrod rolled his eyes. "At least I haven't taken an arrow to my manhood fulfilling those childhood dreams."

Athellenas winced, remembering the pain of the wound he had received in a skirmish with a Zamorackian cult in the city of Isoldyne, twelve years ago. He had taken an arrow right in his crotch while riding alongside King Lionel, the previous king of Centralia, Osman's deceased father. It hadn't exactly been a warm, pleasant experience. He had lived, even though at the time he had wished he hadn't.

Athellenas exhaled, watching as the sky slowly began to lighten, turning brighter shades of red. "So…you never did explain what you're doing here," the Warmaster reminded the Cleric.

"Hm?" Jerrod cocked an eyebrow. "Growing tired of me?"

"Much as I know you would love to come with me and spear Thammaron right in the heart, I know that you're on a mission. You never told me what Saradomin sent you to do in the desert."

"You probably wouldn't believe me if I did," Jerrod chuckled in response.

"Try me."

"Well, if you insist… The Old Man visited me a few weeks ago," Jerrod started to explain, "right before I showed up in Port Sarim, actually. There was the usual back-and-forth foreplay; He never cuts right to the chase…makes me want to cuff Him sometimes, but…well, you can see why even _I_ would never do that."

Athellenas nearly shook his head in wonder. It was almost beyond belief how…how _familiar_ Jerrod was with the God of Light, the way he spoke and acted with him…some would call it disrespect or irreverence. With Jerrod, though, it was just the Cleric being himself. He was a sarcastic grouch with everyone he met, and 'everyone' seemed to include even Gods.

"Do you know what the Stone of Jas is?" Jerrod asked.

"Enlighten me."

"The Stone of Jas—well, before I go in-depth, know that it has never been seen by any mortal; only by the Gods. The Stone was created by ancient entities of extraordinary power; I would suspect that it was these 'elder gods' that created this world to begin with. When they left, the Stone was all that remained of their power. From it came the Anima Mundi. In simple terms, it is the source of all magic."

"Interesting history lesson," Athellenas nodded. "What does it have to do with-"

"Well, if you'd shut up like a good little Warmaster and let me _finish_, I'd tell you," Jerrod retorted. "There is a Prophecy on the Stone. Now, before you go and ask me 'What does it say?' like any other ignorant fool, this prophecy is a _divine_ prophecy, not a prophecy of man. It is not etched, engraved, or written in any way that we could recognize. It is only comprehensible to the Gods, and even Saradomin told me that _he_ had a tough time making heads and tails of it."

"Was he able to show it to you?"

Jerrod let out a sharp, irritated sigh. "Again with the interruptions, Athellenas…"

Athellenas rolled his eyes, turning back out to the view of the river. "My apologies. Continue."

Jerrod hid his grin by covering his mouth with a hand for a moment, then continued to speak. "He _did_ show it to me in a way that I, as a mortal, could comprehend. It was not anything written—not a scroll or a book, or anything tangible. It was a series of visions…almost like flashbacks, only they weren't past experiences; they were...events that haven't necessarily happened yet... I won't go into detail, but this Prophecy speaks of the end of this world as we know it. Now, this could mean the actual _end_ of the world, or perhaps it could also mean the beginning of a new Age through the ending of _this_ one. One thing is certain, though: it _does_ mean the end of the war between Zamorak and Saradomin."

"Does it say who wins?"

Jerrod shook his head. "No, it doesn't. This war can only end two ways; either Saradomin is still standing when the dust clears, or Zamorak is. My job…the mission Saradomin gave to me; I am to find a certain boy who lives in Ullek. I saw him in the Prophecy; he is no ordinary child. Whoever he is, he possesses extraordinary power…in my visions, I saw him invoking the Fifth Element."

"_The_ Fifth Element? A _boy_ using the Fifth Element?"

"Mm-hm," Jerrod nodded. "That boy is in the Prophecy. He will be the one to end the God Wars. Saradomin told me that himself. I have no idea _how_ that will happen, mind you…but that's how it's going down. If something like that is written on the _Stone of Jas_, for crying out loud, it ain't gonna be wrong."

The very top of the sun started peeking over the horizon, sending the first true rays of daylight arcing through the sky. Birdsong could be faintly heard from the riverbanks as they began to rouse. The water-bugs that occupied the surface of the river during the night now began to scatter as the fish began having them for breakfast.

"Okay, I'm with you so far," Athellenas murmured, looking away from the steadily-rising sun. "There's a kid living in Ullek who, according to some divine prophecy, is going to end the God Wars. Wonderful. One thing, though: how the hell do we know which God he is going to end it for? There doesn't seem to be anything in that prophecy saying that he'll fight for Saradomin, for _us_."

"No, there isn't," Jerrod agreed, giving his old friend an approving nod. "I see being a commander as long as you have has not dulled your senses; you catch on fast. The Prophecy says _nothing_ about which side the boy will take. And consider this; Saradomin is not the only one who knows of this Prophecy. Zamorak has read it too. I'd even bet old Zaros also knew of it, back when he was still around. Among the Gods, this thing isn't exactly what you would call uncommon knowledge."

"So Zamorak knows of this boy as well?"

"Precisely," Jerrod nodded. "Do you see what this has become? This is a race. Me against Thammaron, the last elder demon, Zamorak's most trusted lieutenant. I must find the boy in Ullek before he is captured by Thammaron's forces. If Zamorak gets hold of the boy, we are all royally fucked, for lack of a better term."

"Is that why Zamorak has invaded the desert, of all places?"

"That was probably his main reason, yes," Jerrod nodded again. "After he deals with the Menaphites, though, regardless of whether he captures the boy or not…_we_ are next. Or the Hallowlands further to the east."

"_Hm_," Athellenas grunted. That was his only outward reaction to the avalanche of information Jerrod had just imparted on him. "Well, this was very…_informative_…to say the least… Does this mean you will not be staying with us for much longer?"

Jerrod considered this for a moment. "Tell you what… I'm assuming you're heading right for Iunu?"

"Correct," Athellenas nodded. "Iunu is the largest Menaphite city in the northern desert, as well as the closest one to our current location. We shall make landfall this afternoon and camp outside of Aqatios. At first light tomorrow, we march."

Jerrod considered this for a moment, but no part of Athellenas's plans clashed with his own. "Alright, tell you what. I'll go with you as far as Iunu. Hell, I'll even help you sack the city if it's occupied by Zamorak's filth. But once Iunu is in friendly hands, I'm going to have to split and head south with all possible speed."

"Fair enough," Athellenas shrugged.

"If Thammaron's horde wasn't encroaching on Ullek already, I would stay longer, but…well, time is no longer a luxury of mine."

Athellenas reached into a pocket on the inside of his tunic, pulling out a pipe made out of white wood. He pressed some pipeweed into the pipe's bowl, tamping it down with his thumb. He reached into his pocket again for a striker, but hesitated and reconsidered, thinking of a much faster way. He glanced at Jerrod, motioning towards the unlit pipe.

Jerrod pressed his index finger into the pipe's bowl and closed his eyes, concentrating on something. After a second, the tip of his staff glowed red and a small gout of flame jetted out of his finger, igniting the pipeweed.

Athellenas placed his pipe in his mouth, drawing in a breath of the soft, warming smoke, and then breathing it back out. "I think this is your first time sacking an actual city, if I'm not mistaken."

"Is it as fun as it sounds?"

Athellenas gave a wolfish grin. "_More_ fun than it sounds."


	11. Chapter 11: The Battle of Iunu

Chapter Eleven: The Battle of Iunu

_**Athellenas**_

It was another red sunrise. Warmaster Athellenas gazed at it for a moment as he took Onyx's reins. Red sunrises never meant good news. He had seen one around a month ago on the same day he discovered the massacre at Ephyrn. They always symbolized bloodshed.

There had been a red sunrise every morning lately.

Athellenas spurred Onyx along, moving up through the ranks of his own men, who were arrayed in their columns. The 1st Element had been camped in the dunes outside of Aqatios, but camp had just been broken and the men were organized and ready to begin the day-long march to the nearby Menaphite city of Iunu.

The 1st Element's heavy cavalry, under the command of Sir Havarell, had been waiting for Athellenas at Aqatios, as he had hoped. The Warmaster had sent the cavalry to this place overland, rather than by the Fleet. It was faster and easier for them—horses were not the best things to load up onto boats. Loading up the artillery was bad enough; cannons were easy to lose.

Athellenas passed by an older man who was on a chestnut horse, at the head of the X Legion column, wearing battered greenish-silver armor. His armor must have had traces of adamantite in it to give it its green hue. The Warmaster nodded to the man. "General."

"Warmaster," General Dhalit, commander of the X Legion, returned the salute.

Athellenas continued riding up past his men, returning nods and salutes as he went. He exchanged formalities with Sinclair and Airoh, the generals of the IV and I Legions, respectively.

Sir Derren was waiting for him at the very head of the column. Jerrod was also there, though he kept behind Athellenas's second-in-command. "Sir," Derren greeted Athellenas as he rode up. "How's the headache?"

"Gone now, thank you for asking," Athellenas replied. "What's the status on our progress?"

"Sir Havarell reports the cavalry ready to move. As per your orders, I positioned the cavalry around our supply wagons."

"Good," Athellenas nodded. "Very good. We cannot afford to lose our supplies in a raid." Thirteen thousand men stuck in the middle of the desert without supplies was one of the absolute worst nightmares any military commander could come up with. "What of our artillery?"

"Sir Brezhnov reports that his cannons are also ready to move."

"Sound the general advance," Athellenas ordered, reining in Onyx and setting off forward at a slow trot, which was around walking speed.

One of the aides who were at the head of the column raised a horn to his lips and, after taking a deep breath, blew. A harsh, resounding note echoed through the early morning air.

An answering horn sounded further on down the column, answered in turn by another horn even further away. General Airoh got the I Legion moving. The three legions of the 1st Element all marched in a single, large column, one legion after the next, with Athellenas and his staff at the head of the advance. The supply wagons were on either side of the column, and Sir Havarell's cavalry was out on the flanks. The 1st Element auxiliaries—surgeons, medical staff, cooks, engineers, craftsmen for repairs—walked among the legions. Sir Brezhnov's artillery brought up the rear—a small force of heavy field cannons capable of firing solid and canister-shot, as well as a long-range howitzer. There were also deconstructed trebuchets, their parts lashed into a bundle and carried by donkeys.

Drumbeats rolled through the 1st Element's advance as the drummers kept the beat of the march steady. This was not for show; it actually served to keep the army moving at a good speed, but to also keep it from moving _too_ fast. If Athellenas pushed the legions too hard in this desert, men would start dropping like flies from the heat.

Water was the key. Athellenas had issued orders to all centurions, making it mandatory for each soldier to be carrying at least three full skins of water at all times. Sure, the extra weight may have been irritating at times, but the soldiers knew as well as Athellenas that thirst was their biggest enemy, not Thammaron's hordes.

The sun arced ever higher into the sky, slowing down a bit as it neared its noontime apex. Its rays beat down upon the Centralian soldiers, as if it were _trying_ to hamper their progress.

"I suppose you can't conjure up a nice rainstorm for us?" Athellenas said to Jerrod after riding in silence all morning and the greater part of the afternoon.

"Well, it's not impossible," Jerrod admitted. "I would probably manage to make a small cloud bank before I died from the strain of maintaining it."

"So…that's a _no?_"

"Yeah, that's a no."

"Some mage _you_ are…"

"Magic requires energy. Creating a storm requires an amount of energy that only a God possesses, and seeing as I'm _not_ a God, regrettably, you can shut your gob."

"Forgot how much fun it always was to push your buttons…" Athellenas chuckled. "You _have_ gotten a little more mojo since I saw you last, before you took your little ten-year vacation in the swamp."

"Ten years is a long time, mate," Jerrod said. "If you train yourself to be stronger than you already are for nearly every single day of those ten years, you'll come out the other end pretty well."

"I have done likewise," Athellenas nodded knowingly. "Though I have done so with the sword, not with the soul."

"No shame in that, I suppose," Jerrod mused. "Even a sword, ineffective and brutish as it is, can have its uses."

"We shall have to spar, you and I. I suspect you have more skill with a sword than you care to let on."

"I might take you up on that…though if we meet resistance at Iunu, perhaps you will be satisfied by watching me kill a few werewolves."

"Nothing like capping a good werewolf or two…" Athellenas chuckled again, old memories of his adventures with Jerrod springing back up in his mind. "I remember back when we ran into that pack of werewolves up north, back when our hair was still black."

"Which one was that…was that the one in Foronel?"

"No, Foronel was where those Zamorackian cultists were offering up blood sacrifices from the local populace. I'm talking about Uiranos, near the Far Reaches out west, by the White Wolf Mountains."

"Ah, yes…" Jerrod chuckled quietly to himself as the memories came back to him. "Yes, those werewolves _did_ put up a nice little fight…" the Cleric recalled, absent-mindedly touching a rough, diagonal scar on the side of his neck. "I still have the pack-leader's heart nailed up in my hut."

"You two seem to have done much together in the past," Sir Derren, who was quietly riding alongside the two old friends, commented.

"I like this kid; he doesn't say very much," Jerrod grunted, motioning towards Derren with his head. "Tell me, boyo; what is a young man like yourself doing as Number Two to the Warmaster? I would have thought a job like that would require someone…older."

"I would not have chosen Derren as my second-in-command if he was not capable of leading the Element, should ill fortune befall me, God forbid," Athellenas interrupted, cutting in on Derren's behalf.

"Well, in that case, I suppose I cannot bear ill will towards you," the Cleric said to Derren, bowing his head slightly as a show of respect. "I believe everyone will be proving themselves to each other in the days ahead."

* * *

"Well?"

"Uh…" Sir Derren murmured, squinting into the spyglass, trying to get a better look at the city in front of him. Luckily, the red morning sun was rising in the east, which was behind him; otherwise, the sun's glare would have made it even harder to see.

Athellenas, Sir Derren, and Sir Brezhnov were all lying flat on their bellies on top of a tall, sandy hill overlooking the approach to the front gate of Iunu. The medium-sized Menaphite city was surrounded by a high wall of white stone, nestled in the middle of an expanse of hills. Actual, solid hills of earth; not sand dunes.

Iunu burned. Even without the spyglass, it was impossible to miss the columns of smoke rising from beyond the walls, or to smell the all-too-familiar smell of burning buildings.

"The city is definitely occupied by hostiles, but that's not what I'm trying to look at," Derren quickly clarified. "I don't think Iunu has been completely captured, yet."

"What makes you say that?"

"The city is divided into two sections; the outermost and largest part of the city, which is pretty much the whole place, and the inner part in the center. The inner city appears to be surrounded by another wall…it looks like there's fighting still going on at that wall, but it's impossible to be certain at this distance."

"You think there's still resistance in this place, even after all this time?" Sir Brezhnov asked, stroking his long, pointed black beard thoughtfully.

"Thammaron's hordes have already swept through here," Jerrod said, appearing suddenly, startling everyone else. It was as if he had materialized out of thin air. "The monsters you will find in that city are most likely part of a rearguard…probably led by a high-ish ranking demon…hopefully something whose head would look good in my bathroom after I separate it from its shoulders."

"What the hell are they still doing _in_ the city if the rest of Thammaron's party has already gone?" Sir Brezhnov asked.

"Thammaron's main goal is Ullek," Jerrod informed the artillery commander. "And before he can get to Ullek, he must first sack Uzer…either way, Thammaron is not going to spend too much time waiting around for a city as inconsequential as this one to be fully razed. So, he probably left a small force to finish the job and kept right on going south."

"So we face only a rearguard force of dregs?" Sir Derren asked, disappointment almost audible in his tone.

"Think of it as your warm-up before trying to break through Shantay Pass," Jerrod shrugged, turning to head back down the hill. He took a step, but then stopped and glanced back at Athellenas and his two subordinates. "Oh, and judging by the fireball heading right for us, I would assume that the Zamorackians in the city have discovered us, rendering any further concealed reconnaissance unnecessary."

Sir Derren had time only to say, "Wha-?" before a roaring fireball, fired from an unseen catapult somewhere in the city, slammed into the hillside, sending earth and debris flying all over the place. Had the three commanders been standing, they would have been toppled by the force of the impact.

"_Right_, I'd say it's time we got going!" Athellenas exclaimed, leaping back up to his feet.

The next two hours were a blur. Athellenas conferred with all of his subordinate commanders to organize for the upcoming assault on Iunu after making sure the legions were ready to move.

"We're doing this fast, and we're doing it simple," Athellenas asserted. "No need for fancy tactics here; we outnumber the enemy, for one, and the enemy has yet to completely pacify the city. They will be fighting on two sides."

"They still hold the gate, though. We must-" Sir Derren was saying, but Athellenas quelled him.

"You're forgetting one thing," Athellenas reminded his subordinate. "The Zamorackians had to breach the gate in order for _them_ to get inside of the city in the first place, which means the gate is already weakened. Brezhnov?"

"Sir?" Sir Brezhnov straightened up, awaiting what he knew were going to be his orders.

"How accurate is your long-range mortar?"

"My cannon-boys could shoot the wings off a fly with it, sir," Sir Brezhnov replied.

Athellenas rumbled with laughter. "That's what I like to hear. I want you to bring the mortar, as well as the trebuchets, up to these hills. I want your men to knock down that gate."

"Sounds easy enough, sir," Sir Brezhnov nodded. "What of the field cannons?"

"I do not believe we will be needing them," Athellenas replied. "I've been wrong in the past, however, so keep them manned…but put them in reserve, unless I call for you to do otherwise or if you're absolutely certain the battle calls for them."

"It will be done, Warmaster," Sir Brezhnov nodded again, clasping his fist to his heart and bowing his head in a salute.

"Sir Derren, send word to Sir Havarell; tell him to concentrate his cavalry around Sir Brezhnov's artillery positions," Athellenas ordered. "Taking the city will be the infantry's job. And while you're down with the rest of the column, find Doctor Meridius and tell him and the other medical staff to start setting up their field hospitals."

"Right," Sir Derren nodded. The younger knight hurried over to the tree where his horse was tied and mounted it, riding off back towards the 1st Element's position.

The hills were soon filled with creaking, groaning, and clanking sounds as Sir Brezhnov's men went about setting up the siege equipment. Athellenas sat atop Onyx in the middle of the flurry of activity. He made a suggestion or two to the artillerists nearby about the positioning of the trebuchets, but most of the time he just kept quiet and let Sir Brezhnov handle matters. Brezhnov knew a lot more about artillery than Athellenas did.

Every once in a while, fireballs would slam into the hills, fired from within Iunu. None of the burning projectiles ever hit anything, but they were still a nuisance. Athellenas just hoped that none of them hit any of the trebuchets—the catapults were hard to fix.

Over the next half an hour, the three legions of the 1st Element, led by their respective generals, had made their way through the hills and onto the wide expanse of sand that existed between the hills and the city walls, forming up into their formations.

Athellenas spurred Onyx on and galloped down from the hills and into his Element's formations. "_Pikemen in front, archers behind!_" the Warmaster bellowed at the top of his lungs so that his voice could be heard.

The IV Legion, under General Sinclair, was going in first, with the I and X Legions taking up the flanks. Thirteen-thousand men, fully armed and ready to fight, was quite a sight to see. Athellenas could only imagine what having all four Elements of the Centralian Army together would be like.

Sir Derren rode up alongside Athellenas as the Warmaster headed towards the front of the advance. "All generals report their legions are ready, sir," the younger knight informed his superior.

"Good. Sound the advance."

The horns started to blow, sending their harsh vibrations through the hills. The great formation of Centralian foot-soldiers began to surge forward like a wave, albeit an ordered and well-organized wave.

As the 1st Element moved up, the walls around Iunu's gate suddenly came to life. Orcs, goblins, chaos dwarves, death knights—the whole party, all of them armed with crossbows and longbows. A hail of arrows streaked down from the walls, tearing right through the air towards the 1st Element.

"_Shields! Shields!_" Athellenas screamed. He could hear soldiers shouting the same thing all throughout the formation.

As one, thousands of soldiers hunkered down to the ground, locking their shields together in a near-impenetrable wall of steel. Most of the arrows clanked harmlessly off of the shields, but there were always a few that found their marks. Screams rose up from the ranks, coming from men who had the misfortune of getting hit.

There was nothing to be done for them except keep to moving forward. Eventually, medics would recover the wounded and rush them back to the field hospitals where surgeons would be waiting to attend to them.

The IV Legion quickly got back on its feet and started moving again.

The hordes manning Iunu's walls began firing at will. Ballistae bolts and more fireballs arced up through the sky, raining hell upon the Centralians. Again, there was nothing to be done except to keep on pushing forward.

Athellenas hated this part of battle the most; coming under attack in this fashion without having a way to directly strike back. For now, he had to rely on the artillery. And speaking of artillery, it would be prudent to call it in _now_ before the soldiers got too close to the gates.

"Sir Derren, signal Brezhnov!" the Warmaster called out to his subordinate. "Get those gates open!"

"Aye!" Derren replied, raising the small horn which he usually kept tied to his saddle up to his lips, blowing it three quick times. After a second's pause, an identical horn call sounded off in the hills.

"Mind the skies, boys!" Athellenas shouted.

A hail of heavy flaming projectiles, from Brezhnov's trebuchets in the hills behind the advance, streaked through the late afternoon sky, all of them aimed around the city gates, which the IV Legion was drawing ever nearer to. None of the projectiles hit the gate, but they _did_ hit the walls surrounding it. Athellenas's heart burned with satisfaction as he watched goblins and orcs get obliterated by the impacts. The barrage did not clear the walls, not by a longshot, but it did take out a sizable number of the beasts manning them.

A loud, echoing _**BOOM**_ rumbled through the area, louder than any of the other sounds of battle. Athellenas instinctively knew that it was Sir Brezhnov's long-range mortar cannon. This was the first time it was actually being used in a battle.

There was a slight _whooshing_ noise, followed immediately by a large explosion right in front of the city gates. A small crater was blasted into the sand, but the gate remained intact.

"_Keep it moving!_" General Sinclair was shouting over the noise of the next wave of fireballs that was screaming over the walls of the city. Several of the fireballs managed to land near the formations, sending men flying in all directions.

The doctors would not be idle today, nor would the gore-crows.

There was another boom, another _whoosh_, another explosion. This time, the projectile slammed right into the gates. The city gates, already severely weakened by the punishment they had received when Thammaron's hordes had forced their way inside, were instantly blown inward.

Brezhnov's trebuchets unleashed another barrage, this one aimed _behind_ the gate area. The rain of fire continually pounded the area beyond the gates, causing untold amounts of havoc.

"_Archers!_" Athellenas commanded the moment the legions drew within range.

The archers, who had been protected by the shields of the pikemen in front of them, now dropped to their knees and picked their targets, loosing a volley of arrows up towards the walls. Athellenas ensured that the archers were trained hard and trained often. As such, none of the archers were bad shots. This was demonstrated in the amount of beasts that first volley knocked off the walls. Some of the monsters even pitched forward, falling all the way down to the ground, landing with audible crunches.

The archers got back to their feet and kept on moving up with the advance. When they were ready to fire, they would quickly drop back down to a knee and fire off another arrow, and then they would stand back up and rejoin the advance while nocking another arrow.

The hellish barrage of fireballs from Sir Brezhnov's trebuchets abated as the IV Legion neared the gate.

General Sinclair divided up his legion into its seven cohorts, sending them each forward one by one. Each cohort would pass through the city gates, one company at a time. It was slow going at first, but the flow eventually sped up and held steady.

Once all of IV Legion had passed through the burning gates of Iunu, Athellenas dug his heels into Onyx and galloped off towards the gates. He passed through them around the same time the forerunners of the X Legion were entering.

The IV Legion had held position on the Boulevard—the large, wide, main street that ran from the city gate directly to the city center. As per Athellenas's orders, it would not advance further into the city until the I and X Legions were in the city as well. Similar to the formation for approaching the city, the IV Legion would advance straight up the Boulevard while the I and X Legions would fan out and move through the rest of the city on either side of the Boulevard, keeping the IV Legion's flanks clear.

Iunu was still somewhat on fire. Thammaron's army had really done a number on it from what Athellenas could see; every single building was either completely leveled, or at least partially damaged. There wasn't a single structure that was unscathed. The streets were pitted and scorched, littered with rubbish, debris, wreckage...and the corpses of those unfortunate enough to get caught in the violence. Many of the remains were just burnt skeletons, but others were...fresher. Athellenas did not look at them for too long.

Of course, Athellenas's forces bombarding the place with fireballs hadn't exactly helped, either. That had been necessary, though. Either way, the Menaphites, if they survived the coming storm, were going to have one hell of a time trying to rebuild.

Then again, Athellenas was certain that Iunu was not the only place Thammaron had 'visited' so far. What happened here was only one destruction in a string of many. Countless towns and villages had probably been completely wiped from existence. The only reason Iunu was still recognizable as a city was probably because it had walls.

As Athellenas made his way towards the IV Legion, a familiar howling sound arose from what seemed like all sides at once. The Warmaster had heard that sound before. "_Werewolves!_" Athellenas roared. "Prepare yourselves!"

There was a collective _shing_ as thousands of men drew their swords nearly in perfect unison.

"I thought werewolves could only become werewolves during the full moon!" Sir Derren exclaimed, wildly pulling his sword from its sheath, reining in his steed.

"They're _strongest_ during the full moon!" Athellenas corrected his subordinate. "They can change anytime they want!"

The two commanders of the 1st Element were still galloping down the Boulevard at full clip towards the IV Legion's position when they finally attacked. Contrary to popular myths and legends, werewolves were not massive, bloody, hair-covered, shaggy beasts. In fact, their skin was quite smooth. They resembled wolves, but wolves with human characteristics. They were able to stand on their hind legs and use their arms like a man, but they could not hold weapons. Their bodies were sleek and sinewy, rippling with muscle. They had elongated faces, looking exactly like a normal wolf except for the mouths and the eyes.

The mouths of werewolves were more feral and fierce than that of any normal wolf, possessing two rows of razor-sharp incisors that were filed to points. The eyes actually glowed a dull sheen of yellow, though the glowing aspect was not visible in the desert sun.

There were at least a hundred of them, boiling out of every surrounding building and alleyway, all of them loping along on all fours, making a beeline for the men of the IV Legion. Around twelve or thirteen of them peeled away from the main group, noticing Derren and Athellenas charging right towards them, turning to face this new threat.

Athellenas whirled his sword around his wrist, getting ready to plunge it into the first werewolf to cross his path. Shouts and clashing noises could be heard as the IV Legion started fighting off the wolves. Athellenas could even hear the sickening _thucks_ of the werewolves throwing themselves onto the spears of the pikemen.

The fastest of the breakaway werewolves tensed its hind legs and pounced, extending its claws and drawing its paw back to swipe Athellenas's head off. It never even got the chance to start its blow.

Athellenas gave a raw-throated, "_YAH!_" and rammed his heels into Onyx's sides. The dappled gray-and-white steed leaped into the air as well. This surprised the werewolf, which hadn't been expecting to fight an enemy on an equal elevation while it was leaping. The Warmaster plunged his sword right through the werewolf's ribs. The werewolf gave a startled, pained yelp, and then went limp on the runite blade, its blood draining out of the wound.

The impact of Onyx hitting the street again was enough to dislodge the werewolf corpse from the sword blade. Unfortunately, Athellenas didn't have time to swing around to meet the second werewolf that was leaping from the other direction. The werewolf slammed into the Warmaster, knocking him clean off of Onyx.

Athellenas got a faceful of sharp, yellow teeth. He tried to move his sword, but the werewolf's hind legs were pinning it to the ground.

Suddenly, there was a bright flash of hot, searing light. The werewolf let out a piercing screech of agony in the moment it had before combusting into a charred skeleton. Athellenas wrinkled his nose at the smell of burnt flesh, pushing the skeleton off of him.

The Warmaster looked up to catch a glimpse of his savior and was surprised to see none other than Paladin Anesti, the holy symbol of Saradomin atop his staff still glowing brightly. The Paladin gave Athellenas a quick nod before galloping on towards the IV Legion.

There was a high-pitched shriek from off to the side of the street. Athellenas sprang back to his feet and took in the sight of Onyx, his horse, lying on his side, about to get his throat torn out by the werewolf which had taken him down.

Athellenas reached down to his belt, pulled out his dagger, and threw the shorter blade with all his strength. It flew through the air before striking the wolf right in the forehead with a dull _thwuck_. The werewolf's tongue hung limp and it sagged over to the side. Onyx took the opportunity to get himself back onto his feet.

Athellenas recovered his knife and remounted, taking up the reins, and headed off towards the IV Legion as well. Staying out in the open was a sure way to get killed. Sir Derren fell into pace abreast of him. The two commanders set their horses forward at full clip, dodging the remaining werewolves which were trying to tear them to pieces.

A soldier with a closely-trimmed black beard showing from the face space in his helmet ducked a werewolf's swipe that had been aimed at his neck. The soldier bashed the werewolf square in the face with his shield, sending it reeling back, right into the path of Athellenas as he sped back towards the main formation.

Athellenas cleaved his blade downward and separated the werewolf's head from its shoulders.

"Warmaster," the soldier nodded to Athellenas in thanks before he turned his attention back to the battle.

Dozens of men were wounded, bearing deep lacerations and injuries from the werewolves' fierce attack. Those who had not been killed, that is. Men were dragging their wounded comrades off the streets and over to the sidewalks, guarding them as they lay on the ground and concentrated hard on not dying. Not all of them would succeed before the medics reached them.

Athellenas caught sight of two werewolves who were feasting on the corpse of a slain pikeman. That, more than anything, made the Warmaster's rage burn red-hot. Losing soldiers under his command was painful enough, but watching their bodies get _desecrated_…

Athellenas dismounted and tightened the grip on his sword, striding through the carnage towards the two werewolves.

The two beasts looked up from their dinner, blood still dripping from their teeth, catching sight of their next meal. One of them licked its chops and sprang to its feet, warily circling around and behind Athellenas while the second wolf stayed in front of him. Both of them circled the Warmaster, each keeping on an opposite side, judging Athellenas's guard, as well as their chances of survival if they went ahead and attacked.

Athellenas raised his sword over his head, assuming a high guard once more.

Finally, they seemed to have reached a consensus that Athellenas was just a weak old man. Both werewolves bared their teeth in a savage grin and leaped for the aging Warmaster.

Athellenas dove to the side, bringing his sword down into the wolf that had been in front of him. It sliced right through the werewolf's front arms like a red-hot poker through a thin sheet of ice. The werewolf howled in agony and collapsed to the ground, its hind legs kicking and scrabbling uselessly behind it on the cobblestones.

The Warmaster whipped around to take out the second werewolf, but was surprised to find it already lying dead on the ground, a silver throwing star embedded halfway into its skull.

Jerrod appeared from the mob of recovering soldiers, heading towards his kill. "This is _mine_, thank you very much," the Cleric grunted, crouching down over the corpse of the one werewolf and grasping the throwing star stuck in the back of its head. He heaved, trying to yank it out, but it remained stubbornly embedded.

"Good luck getting it out, old friend," Athellenas chuckled. The Warmaster wiped his sword off on the armless werewolf's fur and sheathed it. He then pulled out his dagger and kneeled down, placing a knee on the werewolf's neck. He reached down, held his knife to the wolf's throat, and drew a savage line. The werewolf convulsed; dark, maroon blood spilling from its slit throat.

Athellenas wiped his knife off on the dying werewolf's fur as well, sticking it back into his belt, looking back up just in time to see Jerrod employ a grisly method to retrieve his throwing star.

The Cleric was whispering something under his breath. His elemental staff began to hum with energy and the orb started to glow crimson. Small tongues of flame licked up the length of the staff as Jerrod continued invoking the elemental energy of fire.

The Cleric brought the butt of his staff smashing down onto the dead werewolf's skull. The dead beast's head exploded into flames for a brief moment before disintegrating into ashes. Jerrod leaned over and fished his silver throwing star out of the ashes, slipping it back into his tunic. He cocked an eyebrow at Athellenas. "You were saying?"

"_Show-off_…" the Warmaster grumbled, allowing himself a quiet chuckle before snapping back to the present. "Form up! _Form up!_" Athellenas bellowed, getting the men of the IV Legion to form back up into their formations.

The Warmaster made his way through the ranks of the IV Legion, heading up to the fore of the formation. Much to his dismay, Athellenas was greeted with the sight of General Sinclair lying on the ground, breathing heavily. The brown-haired, bearded general weakly clasped a fist to his heart in a salute when he saw the Warmaster approaching.

"General Sinclair…" Athellenas returned the salute. The Warmaster looked at the trio of lacerations crisscrossing the IV Legion General's stomach and abdomen. Another man was pressing a cloth to the wounds to keep the blood from flowing freely. "Is it mortal?"

"Oh, Gods no," Sinclair scoffed, pushing himself up into a higher sitting-up position. "It'll take more than a few scratches to bring me down… I… I don't think I'll be able to continue like this, however…"

"Absolutely not," Athellenas agreed. "Stay put and wait for the medics; they'll be along shortly. In the meantime, I am going to assume command of your legion."

"So be it."

Athellenas spurred his steed on and took the head of the IV Legion. He sent Sir Derren off to the north flank to check up on the I Legion, and then sent an aide back outside of the city to contact Sir Havarell. He wanted the cavalry to secure the Boulevard while the legions pushed through the rest of the city.

The battle lasted well into the night. The whole city was illuminated by the fires caused by the destruction wreaked by the heavy siege engines, as well as the ferocity of the fighting. Soon after the werewolf ambush, the IV Legion had run into a snag, facing off with a staunch defense-line of death knights who held one of the main roads that intersected the Boulevard which Athellenas was advancing down.

All in the meanwhile, there were shouts, cries, and the sounds of battle coming from the inner city. Athellenas never had the chance to actually see what was going on in the inner city, though. The demands of battle in the present required his total attention.

The death knights proved costly to break through. They were these tall, human-shaped…_things_…clad in armor adorned with spikes. It was impossible to see their faces, if they even had any. All that was underneath their helmets was darkness.

Athellenas ultimately ended up calling in Sir Havarell's cavalry and broke the death knights' line by charging right through them. It cost a few lives, but it cost less than it would have had Athellenas sent in the infantry.

After the death knights, there had been a good-sized force of chaos dwarves, undead, and several other monsters Athellenas did not even recognize.

Athellenas began to lose himself in the battle. He lost track of how many times his blade plunged through metal and flesh, how many times he cleaved into an enemy, how many times he parried, thrusted, slashed, and cut. Everything started to blur.

The Warmaster was detached from the carnage around him, to a small degree. He was aware of his surroundings, his actions, as well as the orders he gave, but it almost felt like he was _watching_ himself kill those enemies, like he was _watching_ himself give orders to his subordinates, rather than actually _doing_ them himself.

There had been at least two or three thousand monsters from Thammaron's horde within the walls of Iunu. That was much more than Athellenas had been expecting. It also made the Warmaster slightly nervous; if Thammaron had been able to spare over two thousand monsters to act as a mopping-up crew to pacify some small, irritating, insignificant city up north, then exactly how _large_ was his entire horde?

Athellenas did not want to know.

Outnumbered as they were, those monsters fought back against Athellenas's men with a sheer ferocity that only a cornered animal knows. They made the 1st Element pay in blood for every recaptured city district.

Athellenas was busy leading the IV Legion on the main advance, so he was not able to pay as much attention to the I and X Legions as he would have liked. However, Generals Airoh and Dhalit were more than capable of leading their respective legions without Athellenas's supervision. Their performance was commendable.

Gradually, the I Legion swept up around the southern reaches of the city while the X Legion hooked around up north. As the IV Legion drove to the east towards the city center, the other two legions maneuvered around the city's outer perimeter, being nothing more than a minor annoyance to the Zamorackian defenders, all of whom were desperately focused on Keeping the IV Legion held back.

Once Airoh and Dhalit were in position, however, they sent their legions forward, utterly smashing through the meager defenses the monsters had initially implemented to attempt to repel them.

The pressure on the IV Legion eased when the demon in charge of the Zamorackian forces in Iunu thinned the amount of forces on the Boulevard, sending them elsewhere into the city to try to stop the onslaught of the rest of the 1st Element.

In this critical moment when the monsters were distracted by attempting to disengage while retreating, Athellenas brought Sir Havarell back in with his cavalry. Many of the monsters had a lot of trouble standing up to men on horseback; something about the thundering hoofbeats, the riders' feral cries, the sheer speed of the cavalry at full clip…many monsters were unable to hold fast against cavalry.

Sir Havarell smashed a jagged path right up through the Boulevard. Athellenas was hot on his heels, sending the four-thousand men of the IV Legion into the vacuum created by Havarell's bloody charge. As the cavalry retreated back to the gate, their task finished, it was the IV Legion that resumed the attack.

The monsters never recovered from the three-pronged offensive. Their defenses were too weak, too shoddy. The IV Legion ran into attacks occasionally from monsters that had hidden whilst their brethren were slaughtered, but they were quickly put down.

It was well into the middle of the night when the three legions of the 1st Element finally converged on the inner city, having wiped out every last Zamorackian stain in the rest of the city.

Athellenas personally shook hands with Airoh and Dhalit, congratulating and thanking them for their exceptional service.

"Where's Sinclair?" Airoh asked after the formalities were dispensed with.

"He got scratched up by a werewolf back near the city gate," Athellenas replied. "He'll be right back to it in a few weeks, though."

"Good to hear."

"Warmaster Athellenas, sir!" a man on horseback galloped up to the meeting between the Warmaster and his two generals. "Uh, sorry to interrupt," the man offered a quick salute to his superiors, "but there's still one last pocket of hostile activity. Death knights, sir, and a demon. Probably the leader of the horde we fought here."

"Generals, attend to your legions," Athellenas saluted Airoh and Dhalit. "I shall be back shortly."

Athellenas was led around the circumference of the inner city wall that protected the heart of Iunu. The last pocket of monsters was located in the square that was in front of the inner city gate.

Soldiers of the IV Legion surrounded the square, barring every possible escape with swords and spears.

In the center of the square, a ring of twenty or so death knights stood fast, standing as still as statues, their black swords at the ready. They made no sound; they only waited to be challenged.

In the middle of the ring was a large, red-skinned beast. It possessed a large mouth full of pointy incisors, hellish red eyes, two horns that protruded from its head, incredibly muscular arms and legs, as well as a thin, wiry torso. The demon seemed to radiate power.

Athellenas's mind flashed back to the demon he had single-handedly killed a month before at Ephyrn, though he knew that this demon was much more powerful. It was a greater demon, probably one of Thammaron's higher-ranking lieutenants. At the same time, it probably wasn't _too_ high of a rank, otherwise Thammaron would not have left it to conquer this city. Still, this demon seemed to have a limited capability of invoking magic. The Warmaster didn't like his chances.

Just as Athellenas moved to dismount, a hand gripped him on the arm, preventing him from getting off Onyx. It was Father Jerrod.

"Hold a second, there, old friend," the Cleric cautioned. "I think _I'll_ handle this one."

Athellenas, without the slightest hint of shame, agreed. "I think I'll let you," the Warmaster replied. "That demon is out of my league."

Jerrod's mouth curved in a wry grin. "That demon isn't _that_ good; you could probably take it. But I'm leaving after we take this city, so this is my only chance to cap a demon one-on-one. Don't worry, though; I'm sure Thammaron has other subordinates you can butcher later on."

"Go give it hell, old friend," Athellenas clapped Jerrod on the back. "But first, just one thing…" the Warmaster cupped a hand to his mouth and barked, "_Archers!_"

There was a small commotion as the IV Legion's archers moved up to the front, drawing back their bows and taking aim.

"Take out as many as you can!" Athellenas urged them. "_Fire!_"

The arrows made a loud whistling screech as they flew through the air and hit the death knights. Half of the death knights fell, arrows protruding from their vital places. That filled Athellenas with a fierce satisfaction; mystical and invincible as the death knights appeared, they were just as killable as the next man.

The death knights—the surviving ones, at least—surged forward. Athellenas knew they did this futile action with the intention of taking out as many soldiers before they met their own doom. Athellenas did not intend to give them the satisfaction.

The Warmaster spurred Onyx forward and charged right into a trio of the charging death knights. He decapitated the first and cleaved the second down to its hip. Normally, such a move would be impossible, but Athellenas's runite sword could cut through a lot more than what a common steel alloy one could.

The third death knight, which had been trampled under Onyx's hooves, sprang back up and twisted to strike at Athellenas, but a nearby soldier was able to hurl a spear right into its neck. The death knight gurgled on what was probably its own blood before collapsing to the ground, dead.

Only five or six death knights were able to reach the IV Legion soldiers; all the rest were taken down by archers and thrown spears. Those half-dozen death knights caused a fair amount of havoc wherever they attacked, but they, too, were quickly dispatched. Athellenas was briefly able to see Paladin Anesti taking on two by himself.

During the slaughter of its subordinates, the greater demon in charge had not moved a muscle. After the last death knight fell, however, it reached down to its waist and drew a huge, wicked-looking, curved blade. It was black and adorned with spikes. No doubt it was a blade that had already spilled its fair share of Saradominist blood.

None of the IV Legion soldiers moved, either. The only figure who was moving was Jerrod. The Cleric had pulled his cowl over his head, using his elemental staff like a walking stick.

"_You challenge me?_" the demon hissed in a voice that was felt more than heard.

"Bet on it, tomato-boy," Jerrod replied, coming to a stop right in front of the red-skinned greater demon.

"_This shall be your last mistake, _priest," the demon spat, uttering the word 'priest' as if it were a curse. To the likes of a demon, however, it probably _was_ a curse.

The demon struck, bringing its blade cleaving down towards the ground, hitting the place where Jerrod had been standing an instant before. The Cleric landed off to the side, rolling back up to his feet. He twisted around, thrusting his staff forward, letting out a guttural cry.

The staff glowed scarlet, exploding with fire, which shot right into the demon's chest. The demon twisted away in the nick of time, but it still received a nasty burn on its chest for its trouble.

The demon recovered faster than Jerrod expected and brought its blade cleaving down onto the Cleric's staff. There was a conflagration of sparks and a bright white flash as black metal met wood, but the staff was completely unblemished.

"It's gonna take a _lot_ more than that, demon," Jerrod chuckled. The Cleric muttered something else under his breath, pointing his staff downwards. The orb flashed brown and the pavement cracked, quickly turning into sand. The moment this happened, Jerrod lashed out, kicking the sand into the oncoming demon's face.

The demon had not been expecting this. It staggered back, grunting as the sand flew right into its eyes.

Jerrod struck at the demon, now that it was distracted. He landed a hit on the demon's left arm. The demon howled, a gash appearing on its limb. It brought its curved blade about and dealt another blow towards the Cleric, fully intending to rip Jerrod to shreds. The demon was really thirsting for Jerrod's blood by now.

Jerrod matched the demon blow for blow, blocking every single strike with his staff, deflecting and redirecting the demon's swipes. This lasted for a good two or three minutes flat; Demon and Cleric locked in seemingly-endless melee combat.

After a momentary pause between blows, Jerrod quickly closed his eyes and concentrated. He focused on his own inner life force, invoking a mixture of fire energy and his own life force. The result was a blindingly-bright flash of light.

Athellenas had to look away. The image of Jerrod shoving a fistful of light into the demon's face was still imprinted in the Warmaster's retinas.

The demon was temporarily blinded, having the light shining directly in front of its eyes. It took a step back when the light abated, but Jerrod offered it no reprieve. The Cleric darted his staff in under the demon's guard and twirled it around its blade in an elegant circle, ripping the blade from the demon's grip.

Jerrod ducked under a swipe from the demon's claws, murmuring under his breath as he did so. His staff began to hum and vibrate, motes of white energy flickering up its length, congregating around the orb at the top, which was also beginning to glow white. The energy was building up.

The demon tried beheading the Cleric with a two-hand cross-cut, but Jerrod ducked once again, rolling off to the side, still chanting under his breath. His elemental staff began to glow brighter and brighter as the energy built up.

Jerrod's chanting intensified and grew in volume until he was practically shouting. The staff was now a bright rod of light. A critical point had been reached, and now the energy needed to be released.

Jerrod sidestepped one last swipe, stepped in close to the demon, and thrust his staff forward, striking the demon right in the chest. The pent-up energy was released in the form of a withering storm of lightning. White and blue lightning flowed from the staff, lancing through the demon's body. The demon did not even have a chance to cry out before the lightning reduced it to a charred skeleton.

There was complete and total silence. The watching soldiers were in awe of what they had just witnessed; an aging man single-handedly taking down a greater demon.

Jerrod straightened up. He yawned and stretched, flexing his shoulders and rolling his neck, easing out all of the kinks. He spun his elemental staff around his fingers and planted its base back onto the ground, leaning on it like a walking stick.

As the Cleric made his way through the square, the IV Legion soldiers parted respectfully. "You were right, old friend," Jerrod chuckled to Athellenas as he passed by. "This _was_ fun."


	12. Chapter 12: Conscription

Chapter Twelve: Conscription

**_Avis_**

Smoke was rising from the southeast horizon. Earlier in the day, large groups of people had congregated on the walls, watching in horror as the smoke rose higher and higher into the sky. Soon, one did not have to be on the walls to be able to see it. Whispers were rising in the city, whispers and murmurings of what was going on in the southeast. No one knew for sure, though; the Qarat was not allowing anyone to leave the city in that direction.

The Qarat had then quickly cleared all civilians off of the walls, claiming there was nothing to see, that they had the situation under control.

Like hell they did.

"What was that smoke?" Avis couldn't help but ask as Farrah hurried him through the streets of southern Ullek.

"The fishing villages and port towns on the coast," Farrah replied. "The invaders are burning them…and the villagers who lived there are no doubt being slaughtered as we speak."

Avis opened his mouth to form an _oh_, but no words came out. There was nothing to say, really.

"We need to get back to the shop," Farrah continued. "Decades ago, when I first got the place, I built a secret passage into the city's sewers. It won't be pleasant, but it's our only viable way of getting out of here, what with the gates all locked down."

"Why the rush, then?" Avis asked next. "It'll be a while before anything can get to the city from the coast."

"Because-"

"You there! Halt!" a deep voice called out from behind, cutting Farrah off.

"_That's_ why," Farrah sighed, swearing under his breath.

Farrah and Avis turned around to see no less than six Qaratai—five guards and one captain whose head and face was obscured by a full helm, complete with a visor—making their way through the crowds on the street. They formed a circle around Avis and Farrah, their hands on their scimitars.

"What do you want?" Farrah asked the soldiers, though he already knew what the answer would be.

"By order of the city governor, we have the right to conscript civilians for the defense of Ullek," one of the Qaratai announced. "This boy is a criminal, and we are taking him for summary conscription. He will regain his honor through service to the Empire."

"He is only ten years old!" Farrah protested. "The minimum age for emergency conscription is thirteen."

The Qarat captain took a step forward. "Does this boy have any legal documents in the Archives?"

Farrah hesitated, unable to answer.

Avis's back stiffened as the captain spoke. He knew that voice.

"I thought not," the captain chuckled. "_Officially_, this boy does not exist, which means he is not a legal citizen of the Menaphite Empire or the city of Ullek, and therefore is not subject to legal age restrictions. Now, old man, if you will excuse me…"

Avis moved like a lightning bolt, surprising everyone. The moment he heard the Qaratai captain speak, he had started concentrating, tapping into his inner energy, preparing to flee.

Avis lashed out at the nearest guard, moving his hand in a chopping motion. A blast of concentrated air plowed right into the guard, hurling him halfway across the street.

"Avinius, _no!_" Farrah shouted, but Avis could not hear him. The boy was too focused on getting away from these guards.

The rest of the guards lunged, but Avis was already backpedaling. He took a deep breath and jumped, executing a full spin in the air. As he came about and faced the lunging guards, he released his breath and kicked out with his left foot. The air seemed to coalesce and compress for a split-second before exploding outward in a wave from Avis's mouth and feet.

The wave of wind slammed into the guards, knocking them off their feet and sending them sprawling.

Avis turned on his heel and started to sprint away down the street for all he was worth, but he suddenly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. Next thing he knew, he was falling forward, the cobblestones rushing up to meet him. The boy was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

Ai-Jhabour calmly wound his meteor hammer back up. It was a simple weapon, one he used only when chasing people down. It was a long length of thin, versatile metal wire with two small—but dense—steel balls attached to the ends. In the hands of one who was highly trained in the use of the weapon, the meteor hammer could wreak havoc on anyone it was aimed at.

The Qarat captain was secretly pleased with himself; Avis was one of the fastest individuals he had ever encountered, and he had still managed to drop him with a hit to the head, a shot that was difficult no matter _whom_ you were aiming at.

Ai-Jhabour sighed with mock-sorrow. "I _do_ wish it did not have to happen this way, but some people just don't know when to go easily."

"I know of you," Farrah said quietly. "The great Qarat Captain, merciless keeper of order on the streets…foiled by two children, four years ago."

Ai-Jhabour snarled, absent-mindedly touching the ugly, puckered burn scar around his left eye, given to him years ago by Jafa thrusting a burning torch into his face. "Enough talk. Go back to the sewer you came from, old man. I have no use for you."

"To each his own, Captain," Farrah spat. "You have not seen the last of me. That boy has a destiny that is greater than any of us combined. Trifle with him at your peril."

With that, Farrah swept his robe about himself and strode off down the street. The old man cast a brief, concerned glance over his shoulder, watching as the Qaratai picked Avis up and made their way back down the street, probably headed towards the Qarat compound near the city center.

The old man glanced up to the sky, watching the sun gradually disappear behind a thin veil of clouds. The clouds were growing darker every minute, it looked like. Farrah quickened his pace.

Farrah let out a frustrated sigh. When had his plans _ever_ gone right? And why did it seem so against the nature of the universe for them to work the way he wanted them to? The old man fervently hoped the boy would be okay for the next few days; at least until his friend, sent by Saradomin himself, to collect Avis arrived. Farrah knew he was powerless to stop the Qarat from taking Avis; that was the maddening part.

Farrah looked back down towards the ground. _Come on, Jerrod, where are you?

* * *

_

Avis woke up twice. The first time almost didn't count; he only opened his eyelids for a few seconds. In the small amount of time he had been aware, Avis noticed that he was in a cell.

He wasn't alone. There was a tall, tattooed man lying on the other cot in the cell. He was fast asleep, though. Avis tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea overcame him. He was unconscious before his head hit the pillow.

The second time Avis regained consciousness, it was for good. Unfortunately.

With a mumbled groan, the ten-year-old straightened up in his cot, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the prison cell. The back of his head still hurt. Avis recalled that the last thing he had felt before losing consciousness on the streets was a sharp pain in the back of his head.

The boy touched the tender spot with a finger and winced. Even though it was impossible to see through his jet-black hair, Avis had a large bruise on his head. He realized that Jhabour must have nicked him with his meteor hammer.

The boy muttered a few choice oaths under his breath, all of them directed at the Qarat captain who was the source of his miseries.

"You a lil' young to be saying words like that?"

It had been the tattooed man who had spoken. He was on the ground near the jail bars, doing push-ups. His sinewy muscles rippled as they felt the burn of the exercise.

"What?" Avis asked, surprised at the sudden comment.

"I'm just sayin'… those are some pretty nasty words, coming from a kid like you," the tattooed man observed. He stopped doing push-ups and flipped onto his back, beginning a set of crunches. "You got a grudge against someone?"

"Ai-Jhabour," Avis sighed, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. "One of the district captains."

"Oh…_that_ bastard…" the tattooed man chuckled quietly. "Yeah, he's an arrogant shite, all right. I've run into him a few times in the past."

"Same here," Avis joined in the tattooed man's quiet laughter. "A friend of mine and I…he's been after us for years."

The tattooed man stopped exercising for a moment, casting a curious glance at the boy with whom he was sharing a cell. "Why is that?"

"That scar on his face?" Avis gestured around his eye, "Yeah…me and my friend were the ones who kind of… _gave_ it to him."

"That would do it," the tattooed man agreed. "That's a story I'd like to hear, sometime. Name's Nasser, by the way," the man extended a hand.

Avis tentatively accepted the hand and shook it. "I'm Avis," he said.

The tattooed man, Nasser, ceased his exercises, resting his elbows on his knees. "I was going to ask why the guards popped you in _here_, of all places, but if you're the one who burned old Jhabour…"

"Why? What is this place?" Avis asked. For the first time, the boy noticed that he wasn't in a jail. This place was…different. Similar to a jail, and yet different.

"You're in one of the underground Qarat penitentiaries," Nasser replied, sounding somewhat surprised that Avis had no idea where he was. "You're a part of the 15th Penal Battalion, now. You didn't know?"

"This is a _penal battalion?_" Avis nearly exploded.

Penal battalions were an old part of the Qarat military forces. When the need arose, the military commanders would create fighting units out of criminals. These units were usually sent right into the thick of things. Although they were officially recognized military units, penal battalions were much more accurately described as 'cannon fodder'.

And now Avis was part of one.

"That a problem?" Nasser asked.

"A small one, yeah."

* * *

"You worthless maggots are in the service of the Qarat, now!" the sergeant-at-arms bawled at the lot of us.

There were two hundred prisoners or so, all of them lined up in a tight rectangular formation in one of the courtyards of the army compound in Ullek. The whole place was filled with the sounds of war; the clinking of weapons and armor being distributed, tweaked, repaired, the blacksmith's hammer echoing through the walls, the never-ending thunder of heavy footsteps. The sun reflected off of the white stone which the courtyard and all of the adjoining buildings were made out of, making it doubly bright outside.

The prisoners were a small part of a much larger machine.

"You all have only one life!" the sergeant-at-arms continued. "You are here right now because all of you have taken great lengths to screw that one life up! We could leave you to rot in the jail cells whilst our enemies close in around us! We could leave you to rot whilst your brothers shed their blood to defend you! But we have not! No, we have instead chosen to give you all another chance!"

The sergeant-at-arms paused to take a breath and drew his sword, leveling it at the prisoner nearest to him. "You there. State your name."

"F-Farouk, s-s-sir…" the thief stammered.

"And what is your crime, Farouk?"

"Stealing from the Plaza markets, sir."

"Do you believe you deserve redemption, Farouk?"

"Uh…" Farouk stuttuered again, trying to judge what the best answer would be. "No…no, sir."

"That is good, for you are right," the sergeant-at-arms agreed with the thief before beheading him. It was so quick; none of the prisoners were expecting it. The soldier simply sliced his sword through the air in a single, swift motion, and suddenly Farouk's body was crumpling to the ground, minus its head. The white flagstones were stained red with blood-spatter.

The other prisoners murmured and shifted uncomfortably, now wary of the sergeant-at-arms and his sword.

"The now-deceased thief was right; _none_ of you deserve redemption!" the Qaratai shouted. "However, General Hassani, commander of the defense force of Ullek, has seen fit to grant it to each of you! You will accompany our brothers into battle, and you shall gain redemption through your service to the Empire! If you survive the battle for this city, then you shall gain your freedom. If you do not… then you shall _also_ be free, though in a different way."

More murmuring circulated through the men of the penal battalion. Freedom sounded like a pretty good prize…

"You have been called upon to serve, and serve you will. However, cowardice will _not_ be tolerated, in any way, shape, or form. If _any_ of you harbor any ambitions of escape, if anyone tries to shirk their service, if anyone even _thinks_ of spitting on the gift that General Hassani has bestowed upon you…well…look at _him,_" the sergeant-at-arms nudged Farouk's headless body with his foot. "Die well," the Qaratai saluted the prisoners with his sword before walking off.

There was an armory somewhere nearby. Avis and the rest of the prisoners were all given crude weapons; swords, spears, and axes. The boy was given a small dagger, but that was it. None of the prisoners got any armor.

"What the heck am I supposed to do with _this?_" Avis grumbled to Nasser, waving the dagger around like a toy.

The tattooed man sheathed the wicked-looking scimitar he had been issued. "You can use it to cut your toenails, if they grow too big," he laughed.

"_Thanks_…" the pale-skinned boy muttered, slipping the knife into the back of his shorts.

The penal battalion was accompanied by a contingent of archers. If anyone tried to run away, the archers would shoot them full of bolts before they could run a yard.

Avis found himself next to Nasser. He instinctively kept close to the burly tattooed man; Nasser looked like he could hold his own in a fight. Avis was not looking forward to any kind of battle; he was not a fighter. Sure, he could outwit the guards in the market, but that was evasion and flight, both of which would get him killed on the battlefield, if not by the monsters, then by the archers overseeing them. Avis was certain the higher-ups had measures in place to make sure any men running away from battle were intercepted with and dealt with appropriately.

No one had any idea what they were going to be facing, either. No messages were coming from the coast villages; only smoke. Something had happened down there, something bad, but no one knew what.

The penal battalion was herded under guard through the streets of Ullek all the way from the Qarat compound to one of the southern gates, where the sentries manning the walls allowed them to pass.

This was the first time Avis had ever been outside of the city's walls since he had been a newborn, when Farrah had found him in the crash site of a falling star. Assuming Farrah's story had been true, that is.

There wasn't much outside of the walls. Ullek was not surrounded by pure desert; it was located in the far southeast of the Menaphite Desert, right near the coast of the Great Southern Ocean. There was still plenty of sand, but there was also a lot more vegetation than one would find in any other place in the desert. There was even a small forest north of the city.

Other Qarat units were already stationed outside of Ullek; their headquarters had been established, and the soldiers were hard at work building trenches and other defenses.

The penal battalions, however, would not be joining them. They had another task.

The sergeant-at-arms who had given the prisoners their 'inspiring' speech returned, taking command of the contingent of prisoners. He introduced them to their temporary commanding officer; an aging, white-haired man by the name of Mahmoud.

Mahmoud allowed the sergeant to continue briefing the penal battalion after the quick introduction. The sergeant was quick and direct; the penal battalions were going to charge headfirst into the coastal cities and attack any hostile forces there. It was a crazy mission; one that everyone knew was doomed to fail. However, the real objective of that mission was to buy the Qarat time to shore up the defenses around Ullek, something they would not be able to do with the constant pressure of attack hanging over them.

The penal battalion, again, was acting as the Qarat's cannon fodder.

The sergeant-at-arms had promised freedom to any survivors of the penal battalions, but it was clear that there would not be many he would have to follow through with. Many of the men who had passed through the gates would not come back through them.

Avis found himself cursing Ai-Jhabour once again. He hoped with every fiber of his being that the Qarat captain would die painfully. He probably wouldn't live to see it happen, though; a ten-year-old was not destined to last long on a battlefield. But Avis sure as hell was going to try.

The boy grabbed his tiny dagger and pulled it back out, holding it loosely in one hand.

_This is crazy_… the boy thought to himself. How was he going to survive a battle with nothing more than a puny knife? He looked down and gave the dagger a long, hard glare. "I feel like I'm going to break this damn thing…"


	13. Chapter 13: Wheeling South

Chapter Thirteen: Wheeling South

Warmaster Athellenas prodded the smoking corpse of the demon with his armored boot. Well, to be technical, it was more a charred skeleton than a corpse. Moments ago, Jerrod had shot the demon right in the chest with a barrage of lightning—a feat few mages would be able to pull off. The withering storm of magical energies had reduced the once-mighty demon to a pile of black bones.

"You really did a number on the bastard, old friend," the Warmaster grunted. He spat on the bones of the demon and turned around to face his friend, who was busy healing the burns he had received from his fight with the demon.

Jerrod glanced over at his latest kill and gave a wan smile. "Been a while since I've killed a demon of that caliber," the Cleric agreed. "Had me worried for a few seconds."

"What? Worried? You dodged everything it threw at you!"

"That's why I was worried only for a few seconds, not for a full minute," Jerrod shrugged. "Didn't think I'd have to spell it out for you."

The northern Menaphite city of Iunu burned. The hordes under the command of Thammaron, Zamorak's highest ranking lieutenant, had swept through the area several weeks prior. Thammaron did not have the time to remain in any one place for too long, though, so a small Zamorackian force had been left behind to destroy the city while the rest pressed on.

Athellenas had arrived with his Element the day before, and they had wiped out the Zamorackian attackers before Iunu was completely razed. The demon Jerrod had killed had been the commander of those Zamorackians, as well as the last one to die.

Though Iunu burned, it was back in Human hands. Did that make the destruction of most of the city worth it? To many, it did.

The multitude of soldiers who had witnessed Jerrod's fight with the demon commander began to disperse. The square in front of the inner city gate of Iunu had contained the final pocket of Zamorackian resistance. The demon commander had been the last of that pocket to fall. Iunu was now completely cleansed.

Athellenas directed the soldiers to their commanders and ordered Sir Derren to begin organizing the men to try and stem the fires consuming the outer reaches of Iunu. In the meantime, he turned back towards the inner wall, behind which the survivors of the city had been holed up, fighting tooth and nail against the demonic attackers.

Iunu had two main sections; there was the common city, which was pretty much the entire place. Separate, however, from the larger whole was the inner city of Iunu, where the local Emir would reside, along with his family. It was protected by another wall, built just as strong—if not _stronger_ than the outer wall encompassing the entire city.

From what Athellenas had seen, there were still survivors holed up in the inner city. He had been able to see Qarat archers manning the walls, though when he looked up now, the walls were empty.

This didn't matter, though. As soon as Jerrod smote the demon, the gate leading into the inner city had started to swing open. The Warmaster and the Cleric both broke away from the Centralian Legions and crossed over to the center of the square.

The gates opened fully and a procession of ragged, exhausted, dull-eyed men clad in battered and dented blue and gold Qarat armor stumbled out. One single glance told Athellenas that these men had been fighting nonstop for days, maybe even weeks.

These Qarat soldiers were accompanied by scores of civilians—women, children, elderly. Athellenas suspected that all of the able-bodied men in the city had probably been conscripted, as he saw no younger males among the civilians. He pictured civilians who had probably never held a weapon larger than a common dagger in their lives. Civilians who were given a sword or scimitar, fitted in armor, rushed to a gate, and ordered to fight. They wouldn't have lasted an hour.

The thought made Athellenas sick to his stomach, but he could not bring himself to pass judgment on the Menaphites. Had it been Tethys that was under attack, Athellenas probably would have instituted a city-wide conscription as well. The Warmaster hoped with every fiber of his being that this would never come to pass.

The Centralian soldiers stepped into the square and helped the Menaphite civilians out of the gate. Under the direction of the centurions, they began directing them towards the main boulevard that led outside of the city, back where Athellenas's men had breached the outer wall. Food and shelter, as well as medical attention, awaited them there.

They were also being moved outside of the city so that they would not hamper the 1st Element's efforts to bring the fires under control. Civilians getting in the way would greatly complicate matters.

Among the crowd of survivors was a man who was not quite as fatigued, not quite as ragged as the others. He wore a simple yellow tunic and a white turban adorned with silver cord. He had a short, cropped black beard that hugged his chin, and a sharp, hawkish nose.

"Looks like the local Emir's coming to say thank-you," Jerrod remarked to the Warmaster. He then leaned in close and whispered, "_I hope he brings us candy_."

"Check your tongue, old friend," Athellenas warned the Cleric. "No need to make any Menaphites our enemies today."

That got a short laugh out of Jerrod, but the Cleric did shut his mouth and step back.

"I am Saddir al-Aqar, Emir of Iunu," the bearded Menaphite in the yellow tunic introduced himself formally. "You have saved my city and my subjects from complete annihilation…my house is now your house. If ever you are in need of shelter, my roof shall provide it."

"I…uh-" Athellenas stammered, not expecting this sudden surge of fraternity from the Emir. The Warmaster had been among Menaphites many times in the past—mostly during his adventures with Jerrod back in his youth—but many of their customs were still a mystery to him.

"You and your men are Centralians," the Emir observed, a hint of surprise evident in his voice. "May I ask what the purpose for your presence in this Empire is? This is an odd place to see so many of King Osman's soldiers passing through."

"I am Athellenas of the Far Reaches, son of Thorvald, Warmaster of the King's soldiers and armies," Athellenas introduced himself as well, invoking his formal titles and his origins. It was a greeting he very seldom used, saving it only for situations like the present one, when he was in the company of unknown, high-ranking officials.

"I have heard of you," the Emir nodded, as if confirming a previous suspicion. "Your reputation as a soldier and a leader precedes you."

Athellenas ignored Jerrod's subtle yawn from behind and continued his end of the conversation. "I have been dispatched by order of my King to assist in the defense of Uzer. Your capital must not be razed."

The Emir cocked an eyebrow. "You had best spur yourselves on. The hordes that ravaged my city have surely passed beyond the Shantay Pass by now. Your—_our_ time is running thin."

Athellenas gave a mirthless smile. "Then we haven't a moment to lose."

* * *

Athellenas grunted as Jerrod managed to score a hit on his upper right arm. The Cleric withdrew just as fast as he had struck, spinning his staff around in his hands like a street performer's baton.

Before they had agreed to spar, Athellenas had questioned the elemental staff's ability to stand up to a runite sword, but Jerrod had assured the Warmaster that his staff was quite indestructible. So far, he had been proven right; Athellenas had hit that staff with dozens of crushing blows already and it didn't even have a nick.

"Come on, old friend," Jerrod quipped, taking a defensive stance. "Surely you have realized by now that conventional forms mean nothing to me."

Athellenas grasped his sword hilt with both hands, raising his blade above his head in a high-guard stance. It was always better to have a high guard because your first strike would always be swooping downward, working with gravity.

Jerrod struck again, aiming for Athellenas's leg. The Warmaster jumped, bringing his legs up as the staff whooshed right below them. The Warmaster landed back on his feet and sprang forward.

Athellenas lashed out at his old friend, attempting to strike him in the side of his head with the flat of his blade, but the Cleric's staff was suddenly blocking the way. Athellenas let his blade slide off of the elemental staff's wood, bringing it back around in an uppercut aimed at the Cleric's side, but that, too, was deflected.

Athellenas rained blow after blow on his old friend, but he was blocked every single time. It had been a long time since the Warmaster had fought someone who was able to hold their own against him in this manner. Jerrod went on the offensive suddenly, almost effortlessly knocking Athellenas's blade aside and cracking him right on the other shoulder.

"_Ach!_" Athellenas stumbled, swearing under his breath. "Now I remember why I didn't do this more often in the past…"

Jerrod let out a hearty laugh. "I _am_ one of the best, so don't feel too ashamed."

"I'd really like to see you fight an Ainu senshi-master from the Eastern Lands," Athellenas muttered. "_That_ would make my day."

Jerrod resumed the sparring match by thrusting his staff forward, aiming for Athellenas's stomach. If he landed a hit like that, Athellenas would be forced to the ground, having the wind knocked right out of him.

Instead of twisting away from the blow, Athellenas deflected it with his sword, working his blade around the wooden staff in a tight circle until it was forced from Jerrod's hands.

"Interesting…" the Cleric murmured. "I like that…"

Athellenas sheathed his sword. "I think we should call it a night, my friend. I don't want us to beat each other up too much before another big march. Plus, we've been fighting all day today…I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Liar," Jerrod chuckled. "You fight with the same strength you did back when your hair was still black. Still…rest and recuperation does take priority over entertainment."

"Are you sure you cannot remain with us any longer?" Athellenas asked his old fiend as he straightened up and smoothed out his beard. "You have been invaluable to us."

The Cleric shook his head, genuine regret visible in his eyes. "Sorry, but I cannot. God of Light's orders. I have to get to Ullek before Thammaron's cronies do. If the boy from the Prophecy is captured…well, you know how screwed we'd be if that happens."

Athellenas let out a sigh, but gave an agreeing nod. "I figured that's what you would say. I suppose Ullek takes priority…but still, I _do_ wish you could stay."

"You still have your Paladin. Anesti is a powerful mage…not as good as me, naturally, but he'll prove a suitable substitute," Jerrod shrugged. He bent over and picked up his elemental staff, which had been lying in the place where it had landed after Athellenas had sent it flying. Its orb gave a slight flash and glowed faintly, as if it were happy to be back in the hands of its creator.

"I will not be here when you wake," Jerrod said to Athellenas. "You will be hard-pressed to reach Uzer before Thammaron…I'll be even harder-pressed to reach Ullek. It's a long way."

"May the Gods watch over you."

Jerrod chuckled again. "Oh, Saradomin's probably watching me right now. Nosy old bat, he is."

* * *

Father Jerrod walked aimlessly through the ruins of Iunu. It was still the middle of the night, but the dull glow of the fires that still burned in the city illuminated the darkness. Columns of smoke, colored a hellish red by the fires, still climbed into the sky. The stars were hidden, obscured by the smog.

The Cleric passed by several groups of soldiers who were forming quasi-fire brigades running from wells to burning buildings, passing buckets of water from man to man in order to quench the fires before they destroyed too much. Such teams of soldiers were scattered all throughout the city.

This was Jerrod's first war. That certainly does not mean that he was inexperienced; far from it. The thing is that formal, official wars do not occur as frequently as people think they do. Humanity has been more or less united against Zamorak's onslaught…excluding the maddened, misguided individuals who threw in their lot with the Dark One, for whatever reason. But they were a minority.

Zamorak's last attack against the lands under Saradomin's sway occurred six hundred years ago. He had swept down from the Wilderness and burned the northern half of Centralia. The Centralian Army, with the assistance of the Iceyene from the Hallowlands and the Menaphites, managed to fight Zamorak's hordes to a standstill just north of Tethys. Zamorak was then driven back to and defeated on the banks of the Salve, the river that forms the border between Centralia and the northern reaches of the Hallowlands.

Ever since then, there had been no real war against Zamorak, but there had always been fighting, and a deep-seated, general fear of another invasion from the north. In Jerrod's youth, he had spent countless months and years fighting nightmarish monsters alongside his friend Athellenas. There had been constant werewolf and vampyre presence in the Hallowlands, constant undead uprisings in the far north of Centralia…monsters were everywhere, and it was thanks to adventurers and warriors like Athellenas and Jerrod that towns all over Centralia weren't affected by them very much.

For now, at least.

So even though this was the first time Jerrod was in an actual war, he had still seen and done more than almost any other human alive. In this day and age, not being in a war meant nothing. In fact, there was probably more fighting to be had outside of a war, what with pirates, bandits, and marauders constantly harassing law-abiding citizens.

The soldiers whom Jerrod passed by all gave him respectful nods and salutes. Word of his fight with the demon seemed to be spreading. The Cleric allowed himself a small smile. He didn't accomplish feats like single-handedly taking down a greater demon just so that people would tell stories about him, but it was a perk that he certainly didn't mind.

As he was walking past an overturned street kiosk, he hesitated, noticing that its stock had been an assortment of Menaphite rugs. The Cleric stopped in his tracks, an idea coming to mind. He had originally intended to seek out an ugthanki camel, or spirit a horse away from the 1st Element cavalry in order to provide him with transportation through the desert to Ullek, but he may have just found an alternative…

Jerrod nodded, his mind made up. He selected a single red and gold carpet from the stand and laid it out flat on the street. He took a deep breath, laid his staff down next to him, and crouched down over the carpet, interlacing his fingers and cracking the knuckles. Time for a little magic.

Not all magic is purely elemental. Some of it comes solely from the Anima Mundi and does not involve invoking Air, Water, Earth, or Fire. It was a different kind of magic than that of the elements, an inner magic that ran purely on life force.

Jerrod crawled onto the rug, sitting cross-legged in the center. He grabbed his staff and laid it across his lap. He then checked his belt, making sure he had plenty of water for the trip ahead. Satisfied that he did, he then closed his eyes, taking long, deep breaths.

The Cleric shut out all external distractions, focusing only on his inner energy, and the rug that he was sitting on. The tendrils of his mind crept into the fibers of the rug. He gave a little smile as he felt them; the tiny, miniscule microorganisms that seemed to exist everywhere. In the soil, in the water, in the air, on other living things…life was simply everywhere, even if it was too small for the eye to see.

Jerrod tapped into the trace life energies of these countless microorganisms living in the carpet. Tiny and insignificant as they were, even these life forms had the Anima Mundi pulsing inside of them. Jerrod paused for a moment to regain focus before proceeding. He focused hard on the microorganisms in the carpet, concentrating on each and every one of them. He then made as if he were about to invoke an elemental spell; tapping into his own Anima Mundi and transmuting it into the form of kinetic energy. This was all done in the mind, and it is the basis for every spell a mage casts.

Jerrod allowed his own life energy to flow into the microorganisms of the carpet, supersaturating their own life forces. Each of their life forces swelled to a humongous size and mingled with each other until it seemed as if the rug itself had one large life essence. The Cleric murmured under his breath, focusing hard on that energy. He stabilized it, solidified it, and quickly bent it to his will. That energy was his to command.

And command it he would.

The Menaphites had jealously guarded the secret of creating a magic carpet since as long as anyone could remember. Jerrod had discovered how to do it in a matter of days after riding a few himself. It amused him how fiercely the Menaphites kept secret an art that was so simple to practice. Well, simple for the likes of him, at least. Maybe not so simple for other mages. The concept of microorganisms was something very few could wrap their minds around in this day and age. The only reason Jerrod understood it was because he had spent ten years in a swamp, surrounded by all kinds of life. Especially the very small kind; all of the puddles and lakes of the Virid Swamp were teeming with bacteria, algae, and all sorts of tiny life forms.

The energized rug lifted itself into the air a few inches and hovered uncertainly, as if it were waiting for Jerrod's orders. In a sense, it actually _was_. Jerrod gave a quiet _tut-tut_ and gave the carpet another energy burst. This time, it shot at least twenty feet into the air.

"_Better…_" the Cleric murmured. Under his careful guidance, the carpet began to drift lazily through the air, heading down the street. Gradually, however, its meager speed began to accumulate, almost like a snowball gaining momentum while rolling down a hill. Within a minute or so, the carpet was whizzing through the streets of Iunu faster than a horse at full clip.

After another minute, once the Cleric was satisfied the carpet was going fast enough—at least twice as fast as a soaring hawk—Jerrod relinquished his hold over the carpet's speed. It would remain constant until he desired to bring it back down. He only kept hold over the direction he wanted the carpet to travel in; if he released his hold on that, too, he would smash right into a wall.

Men shouted and pointed from below, gesticulating madly at the dark shape flitting through the sky. Most of them had never seen magic carpets before.

Jerrod increased his elevation until he was well above the tallest rooftops and towers. As he passed from the city boundaries, his brow furrowed in a curious frown. Something about slipping out into the night without saying or giving any sort of good-bye just didn't settle well with the Cleric. Jerrod grunted quietly to himself, twisted around, and set his staff down at his feet. He took a deep breath, focusing on his inner energy once more. The orb at the tip of his staff glowed red as it supplied him with the elemental energy of fire.

A spark appeared in between the Cleric's palms. Jerrod concentrated on that spark, layering it with dozens of different swirls and eddies of flame, all compressed into the spark's tiny volume. Once he was finished, he opened his eyes and flung his hands forward. The spark shot out of his grasp, flying out into the night sky. Jerrod watched it go.

For a moment, the spark seemed to fizzle out and vanish from view. Then, out of nowhere, a huge, brilliant explosion of red lit up the night sky. It was laced with green, yellow, and several other colors, as well as smaller pieces of orange fire that fizzled around like party imps. The explosion was also perfectly symmetrical and shaped in the form of a starburst.

Jerrod allowed himself a wry grin as he turned back to face front, the brilliance of his firework show silhouetting him from behind. All those valiant heroes and legends from old were all the same; they did something great and wonderful, the people loved them to death, but they were also some of the humblest people you'd ever meet. They never wanted any of the attention they got for their actions.

The Cleric chuckled quietly to himself. They didn't know what they were missing.

Jerrod then gazed off towards the southern horizon, where the next part of his destiny lay. His smile slowly vanished, replaced by an expression of grim determination. He had a boy he needed to recover, as well as a Zamorackian horde that he needed to outpace. This was going to be a close one, even for him.

"Ullek, here I come…"

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Alright, I'm really sorry for taking so long to get this chapter up. I've been away for the past two weeks, and the power went out right before I left, so I couldn't post anything. I know, it sounds like an unlikely bunch of bad luck, but it's the truth._

_Ah well, the point is that I'm back now. Enjoy!_

_-TheAmateur_


	14. Chapter 14: Cannon Fodder

Chapter Fourteen: Cannon Fodder

The sun was hidden. It had to be sometime around midday, but the sudden onset of thick storm clouds made it as dark as evening. South and east of Ullek, the Qarat was hard at work erecting defensive fortifications and trenches. Unfortunately for them, there was a large force of what appeared to be vampyres, werewolves, and death knights advancing from the southeast. They would reach the city boundaries before the Qarat finished constructing them.

However, the Qarat had thought of this ahead of time. They needed someone to incur a preemptive strike against the oncoming monsters in order to buy them some time. They needed someone to be thrown into the meat grinder so that the defenses would be strong enough to withstand an attack. The problem was that this was practically a suicide mission, and the Qarat was unwilling to sacrifice any of its regular units, so a substitute had to be found. Who better than criminals to do the job?

It was genius, really. During the course of a normal battle, the criminals would simply be left to sit in their cells. If the enemy broke in, they would be slaughtered. If the enemy was kept out of the city, they would simply continue to sit in jail for the rest of their sentences. But now…the Qarat General in charge of the Ullek garrison had conscripted all of the city's criminals into penal battalions. These units of criminals would then be thrown into the horde of monsters. Most, if not all, would die, and the ones who survived would then be granted pardon.

Instituting the penal battalions supplied the Qarat with cannon fodder to keep the monsters at bay for a time, and if Ullek survived the battle, it would come out the other end with empty jails. That would also save a lot of money. The plan was genius.

Despite all of its inherent pros, the ingeniousness of the penal battalions was lost on Avis as he found himself marching ever closer towards an advancing group of death knights. The main horde of monsters seemed to be hanging back behind this group. Not that it mattered, really…one look at those death knights was enough to make Avis break out in a cold sweat.

They didn't even look human. They were tall, menacing figures clad in dark suits of armor adorned with wicked-looking spikes. They had no visible body, being completely encased in their armor. The only thing that was visible through their helmet visors was darkness. They wielded two-handed blades of black metal and marched in perfect sync with one another.

"Mm…" Nasser, the tattooed criminal with whom Avis had shared a cell, murmured as he eyed the oncoming death knights, drumming the blade of his scimitar with his fingers. "I know this is the perfect time for me to say, 'I've been through worse'… but I don't think it gets much worse than this."

"You could be stuck with _this_ thing instead of a real weapon…" Avis muttered, waving his dagger through the air. Because he was still a child, the armsmaster back in the city had only given him a small dagger. Either that, or Ai-Jhabour had ensured that Avis did not get anything more effective. Either way, Avis was stuck on a suicide mission with nothing to defend himself with except for a knife. Not very good odds.

"Yeah, that would be worse," Nasser agreed with a shrug.

The drum that was marking our pace began to increase. Someone shouted, "_Double-time, boys!_" The prisoners started moving faster, going at a light jog. People who had been muttering and talking before fell silent, getting into the mood of the fight. They were about to be in the battle of their lives, and odds were that they weren't going to make it through alive. Still…if they _did_ survive, they would gain a full pardon of their crimes. They sure as hell were going to try.

"Hey…_hey!_" Avis sxclaimed, tugging on Nasser's shoulder. "The Qarat archers; they're gone!"

Nasser flicked his gaze around, noticing the absence as well. The archers who had been assigned to guard the penal battalion must have remained back at the defenses. "Yeah," the tattooed prisoner shrugged. "So?"

"What do you mean, _so?_ Without them here we can run!"

"And where would we go?" Nasser asked. "Death lies behind us as well as ahead of us. If the Qarat sees us retreating, they will kill us."

"Oh…" Avis said, disappointment evident in his voice. "What are we supposed to do, then?"

"Try not to die?" Nasser shrugged again.

Avis tried hard to keep himself from hyperventilating as the death knights drew nearer and nearer. How had everything gone so wrong? Things had been so simple before…surviving from one day to the next without losing a hand for thievery. Then Farrah had told him that he was going to be instrumental in bringing the God Wars to an end. A friend of Farrah's was on his way to Ullek to get Avis out of the desert and train him in the art of elemental magic.

_Now_, Avis found himself marching towards his own death, armed with nothing more than a wimpy little knife. How was he supposed bring the God Wars to an end if his destiny was to get skewered by a death knight's blade? Whoever created that so-called 'divine prophecy' must have messed up big-time.

The line of death knights raised their dark blades, holding them out and upright. A low, menacing hiss seemed to radiate from the armored wraiths. It was a horrible sound, one that seemed to seep straight into a man's soul and spark a primordial fear.

Avis instinctively tightened his grip on the dagger he wielded. The men around him started wringing their hands around the hilts of their weapons in discomfort. That noise the death knights had been making had gotten to everyone in the penal battalion.

Unfortunately for the men, the death knights leveled their weapons and charged.

One of the prisoners further on down the line shouted, "_Let's give 'em hell!_" The cry was taken up by dozens of others and eventually the entire battalion. The prisoner warriors grouped up and charged as well, running at full clip towards the opposite line of death knights.

Avis did not run. He felt no need to throw his life away. Even if he had been running, he would have been overtaken by the rest of the prisoners, anyway. The criminals and the scum of Ullek slammed into the death knights head-on…and paid for it with their lives. Anyone who was in the very front of the charge was utterly butchered by the death knights' blades. The dark metal sliced through flesh and bone like an Ainu katana through papyrus.

The men who were not at the forefront managed to get a frenzied jab or thrust in at the death knights before they, too, met their ends.

Not all of the prisoners were meat for the grinder, however. Some actually knew how to use their weapons. A handful had even served in that Qarat at one point in their lives, and were more than proficient with a blade. Despite the death knights' intimidating exterior, they were still just as killable as the next man. Of course, the problem was actually _killing_ them…

Nasser had grouped up with three other beefy criminals—Avis noticed that those other three also had the mark of the Qarat tattooed onto their shoulders. These men were veterans. Together, they surrounded one of the death knights. It took all the skill and concentration of three of the men to fend off the armored wraith's savage attacks. While they did this, the fourth man would find an opening in the death knight's guard and strike, driving his cutlass or short sword into a crease in its armor.

Nasser and his comrades actually managed to take down at least five death knights in this manner before their luck ran out. One of the criminals moved to stab at another death knight's leg, but the death knight actually stepped _forward_, allowing itself to be impaled. The criminal had not been expecting this, and in his moment's hesitation the death knight brought its blade swinging down, cleaving the criminal from his left shoulder to his right hip, slicing him diagonally in half.

Avis nearly threw up at the sight. He turned around, only to come face-to-face with another criminal. The man was gurgling and blood was dribbling from his mouth. He fell forward, crumpling to the ground. A death knight stood behind him, its blade slicked red with the now-deceased criminal's blood.

Nasser stepped out from the side and drove his scimitar under the helmet of the death knight. The monster gurgled once, black vapor wisping from its visor slit. It collapsed to the ground.

Nasser had one friend remaining; the other two were most likely in pieces. The remaining Qarat veteran was also missing a hand—his arm simply ended in a bloody stump.

At least half the penal battalion was now dead…over a hundred men, gone in minutes.

Nasser discarded his scimitar and picked up the fallen death knight's black sword, whirling it through the air a few times to get a feel for the weapon's weight and balance. As he did this, two more of the armored wraiths lunged towards him from behind. Nasser's companion raised his scimitar and parried one of the death knights' blows. Just as he accomplished this, however, the other death knight slid its blade neatly through the criminal's side. The dark blade came out under the criminal's opposite arm, and the man went limp.

The death knight pressed an armored boot to the criminal's corpse and kicked it off of its blade. Nasser let out a roar and swung his blade towards the death knight's helmet. The death knight blocked the blow with its own blade. Sparks flew and a horrible screeching sound rang out as the two dark blades grated on each other. Nasser adjusted his grip and smashed the death knight in the helmet with his hilt, causing the monster to stagger back a few paces. Nasser then inverted his sword and stabbed it right through the death knight's heart.

Nasser yanked the sword free and whirled to strike at the second death knight. He turned and stepped forward...right into the second death knight's thrust.

Avis had already been moving forward to help, but he was too late. The tattooed criminal had stopped breathing by the time he slid off the blade. The ten-year-old watched Nasser die, skidding to a halt, his mouth hanging open in an expression of horror.

The ten-year-old watched the death knight turn towards him, but found he was unable to run. He looked all around him, watching as the other death knights slaughtered the surviving prisoners. Men screamed and howled like animals as they were utterly torn apart. Blood was everywhere, staining the sand scarlet. Gore crows circled high above in the sky, waiting patiently for the fighting to end so that they could begin their meal.

Two men scrabbled across Avis's line of sight, but three death knights converged on them, kicking them down and stabbing them over and over again. Their blood spattered all over Avis's face. This seemed to snap the boy out of his shock.

The pale-skinned boy locked his gaze with the death knight that had just killed Nasser, the same one that was striding towards him now. Pure hatred ripped through the boy's mind and a high-pitched, nearly inhuman scream rose from his throat. He sprinted forward, heading right into the death knight, dagger raised.

Avis leaped into the air, hurtling towards the death knight's helmet, bringing his dagger stabbing forward, aiming for the visor slit. The death knight brought up its arm and used its armored gauntlets to backhand the boy, deflecting his dagger thrust and sending him flying backwards.

Avis slammed into the sand, blood dripping from his mouth and a bruise forming on his cheek. The world was spinning from the force of the blow that had sent him flying. The boy wiped some of the blood away with one hand, propping himself up with the other.

A grip of iron closed around Avis's throat. The death knight lifted the boy into the air, holding him by the throat. Avis managed to give out a choked gasp, but that was it. He pulled at the death knight's armored hand, trying to lever it away, but it was useless. The monster was too strong.

The death knight cocked its head. It did not raise its sword; it simply observed the boy, like a scientist poring over a specimen. It drew Avis in close until its faceplate was practically all the boy could see. It hissed again, but this time words came out. Cold, icy words…words that Avis seemed to _feel_ more than hear.

"_You are the one whom my masters want…_" the death knight hissed.

Avis's vision began to darken. He couldn't breathe. The boy forced what remained of his non-panicked self to calm down. He squeezed his eyes shut. An image of a lone willow tree on a hill appeared in his mind, presenting itself to him. The boy concentrated on it, imagining himself on that hill. It was what he usually pictured when he needed to summon the winds. Well, he _used_ to have to picture something like this; lately, his skill with Air Magic had grown a great deal. He could tap into the elemental energy inside of him just like _that, _without having to set aside time to concentrate and center himself. The present situation, however…getting strangled by a death knight tended to change things up a bit.

Air is an interesting element. Not many mages used it very much, but if used properly…wind could be just as dangerous as flame. If enough air was compacted into a small shape, it would get denser and denser…eventually becoming strong enough to deflect arrows, or even slice through metal. Avis had demonstrated this when he had used concentrated wind to break open the shackles Ai-Jhabour had put on his wrists over a week ago…the same ones Avis still wore now; he had no way to remove the iron bands.

Avis opened his eyes. The death knight hesitated. The boy's eyes almost seemed as if they were glowing. Avis let go of the death knight's gauntlet with his right hand, steadily curling it into a fist. He guided the flow of elemental energy from his inner Anima Mundi and into his fist.

The energy built up, straining to be released. Avis did exactly that; he thrust his fist forward, flattening his hand out and shoving all five fingers into the death knight's visor slit. Black ichor painted the inside of the helmet as the blast of super-concentrated wind blew apart the death knight's skull.

Unlikely as it seemed, _something_ had existed under that armor.

Avis fell to his knees, choking and gasping for breath. He did not have much of a reprieve, however. Other death knights took note of their comrade's demise. There were around thirty or so left, and at least a dozen of them dropped whatever they were killing and started to converge on the boy.

Avis quickly regained his breath and rose to his feet. He took one look at his dagger, which was lying in the sand, but he did not make any move to retrieve it. It was worse than useless in this situation.

A black blade whistled through the air, dead set on separating Avis's head from his shoulders. It was an easy blow to dodge—Avis had dodged much quicker strikes from the guards in Ullek's Plaza. Not for the first time, Avis wished he knew how to invoke Fire Magic. Air suited him well, but his movements were more attuned to the element of Fire—fast, deadly, and from all sides.

The rest of the death knights joined in the fray, and Avis found himself leaping, rolling, and ducking through a labyrinth of sword strikes. There were at least twelve blades trying to hit him; Avis wouldn't last another five seconds. A blade scored a hit on Avis's upper left arm, slicing open a neat laceration which began to bleed openly. The boy stumbled, but did not fall.

Acting almost of its own accord, Avis's right leg shot out and planted itself In the sand, preventing the boy from falling. The next few seconds went by very quickly. Within an instant, Avis became aware of a new force bubbling up inside of him, like boiling water gushing out of a tea kettle. Later on, when he looked back on this moment, he would be able to remember opening his mouth and screaming, and then a bright, blinding light that whited out the entire world.


	15. Chapter 15: Impending Doom

Chapter Fifteen: Impending Doom

Avis opened his eyes, shaking his head to help himself regain full awareness. He felt as if he had been daydreaming…falling asleep for a short amount of time, only to suddenly snap out of it. Only this time, he knew he had not been asleep…he simply didn't remember what had happened a few seconds ago.

To his absolute shock, Avis saw the still-smoking corpses of the entire group of death knights that had slaughtered the penal battalion littering the sand all around him. Well, at least the corpses of those that hadn't been blown to bits; pieces of the dark, spike-adorned, spiny death knight armor were scattered all over the place. The sand all around Avis was also charred black. In some places it had even turned to glass.

For a moment, the only thought going through the boy's head was, _Did _I_ do this…?_

Avis didn't have time to fully appreciate the sight, however. Regardless of how those death knights had ended up dead, the boy was just thankful that they were _dead_. He would have time to think about it later; right now, there was a large horde of monsters heading right towards him.

"Time to go…" Avis muttered to himself. As he turned to flee from the rapidly-approaching line of werewolves, vampyres, and death knights, though, Nasser's voice came back to him: _And where would we go? Death lies behind us as well as ahead of us. If the Qarat sees us retreating they will kill us_.

While the penal battalion was marching to its doom earlier, Avis had noticed that the archers assigned to guard the prisoners had remained behind at the Qarat defenses. What, then, was keeping the battalion from breaking ranks and running? Nasser had then reminded him that the Qarat immediately killed anyone whom they saw running away.

Avis quickly made up his mind anyway, turning tail and sprinting back across the sand dunes towards the city. If he remained where he was, death was certain. If he tried to make it back to the city, death was only very likely. Avis would take 'very likely' over 'certain' any day. And still, he had one rare thing none of the Qarat soldiers possessed. Magic. He had somehow just blasted his way through over twenty death knights; he had _not_ gone through all that just to get downed by some schmuck with a bow and arrow.

A small plume of dust and sand was kicked up behind Avis as he ran. Though he was not the strongest person ever to grace the earth, the boy sure did know how to _run_. Running was a skill any thief needed to survive, and now it was going to help save Avis's life again.

The forward series of trenches and wooden defenses became visible again as Avis crested the final major sand dune in between him and Ullek's southeastern gate. The boy heard soldiers shouting as he drew near. An arrow thucked into the sand in front of him, no doubt a warning shot. The Qaratai manning the section of defenses where Avis was headed leveled their spears, threatening to impale the boy if he continued.

Shouts of "_Turn back!_" and "_Coward!_" rose up from the ranks of soldiers. Avis resisted the urge to reply in kind; it's not as if any of _them_ had been sent into the meatgrinder. He had charged a force of death knights whilst the soldiers remained safely tucked away behind their trenches.

Avis kept right on going. Nothing was going to get in his way this time. He tensed when he heard the loud _twang_ of dozens of arrows being fired at once. If he wasn't careful, he would get shot so full of arrows he would resemble a porcupine.

The boy looked up and, for a brief moment, saw the hail of arrows whistling through the sky, heading right for him. He took a deep breath and leaped into the air. He spun around as he jumped, lashing out with his leg and fists. An arc of concentrated wind exploded out from the boy. Many of the incoming arrows were shattered, and the rest were deflected, flying every which way.

Avis hit the sand and kept on running towards the trench. He stared at the spears and pikes pointing right at him and briefly wondered how painful it would be to have one of those in his gut. Well, he did not plan on having that happen. Ever.

The moment before he was about to get run through by the leveled spears, Avis jumped into the air, going into a forward flip. Normally, most people would never have even cleared the wooden stake defenses with a leap like that, but Avis was not most people. He had Air Magic.

Avis, just at the point in his forward flip where he was upside-down, released the deep breath he had taken when he had deflected the arrows, pushing down with his hands and arms. Another powerful gust of wind roared down out of his mouth and from his hands, propelling him up at least twenty feet into the air, vaulting him clear over the leveled spears, the wooden defenses, and the entire trench.

The boy was not finished, however. Inspiration struck him as he finished his flip and sailed back down towards the sand. Rather than actually _land_, he gathered the air around him and let loose another jet of wind, pushing himself further up into the air. When he started to fall again, he repeated the process; gathering the air around him in a thick cocoon and releasing it in a powerful, concentrated jet of wind.

After a few tries of this, Avis then had a new idea. Constantly having to gather the air and release it all as wind would get tiring after a few minutes. Instead, he streamlined the process—concentrating the air around himself at the same time and rate as he was releasing it, resulting in a constant jet of wind keeping him aloft.

The boy was _flying_. Avis's face broke out in a radiant grin as this realization hit him. He was surprised that this use of Air Magic had never occurred to him before. He had figured out how to weaponize air, how to use it to cut through even the toughest of metals…and yet it had never occurred to him before that he could try using it to fly.

After a few seconds, Avis no longer had to continue gathering the air around himself in a cocoon; he had gained enough forward momentum that he simply channeled the wind that would normally be blowing in his face and forced _it_ to propel himself forward even faster. Concentrating hard, the boy modified the shape of the air cocoon into more of a wedge, with its point extending forward in front of him so that it cut through the wind and removed air resistance as a hindrance.

The city walls drew near as Avis kept up his flight. He had ascended to a height that just barely surpassed the walls. If he kept this up, he would be able to sail right over the walls and into Ullek. This sure beat having to fight back in through the heavily-defended gate.

Avis flinched as he felt a sharp pain in his chest, but he ignored it. All that mattered was getting over that wall. He took another deep breath and redoubled his efforts, gaining another ten feet of altitude just as he reached the wall. With an unrestrained whoop of joy, the boy sailed over Ullek's southeastern wall, flying right into the city, leaving the archers who were manning the wall speechless.

Once he made it back into the city, Avis steadily began to release the magic. Flying through the center of Ullek was not the best way to lie low, which was exactly what he needed to do right now. He was fairly certain the Qarat would not waste time hunting him—the city was about to come under full attack; the army had more important things to deal with than runaways. Still…Avis knew in his heart that he would have to leave Ullek. All of the Qarat soldiers had seen him run away. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, but he was the only person in the Menaphite Empire with pale skin. It would only be a matter of time before the authorities captured him.

When Farrah's acquaintance—the man who was going to train him—arrived, Avis knew that he now truly had no choice. He had to leave with him. If he stayed in Ullek, he would die, even if the city withstood the attack, which Avis was certain that it would. The force attacking from the southeast was powerful, but small. It had managed to burn the coastal towns, sure…but Ullek was no coastal town.

Avis, once he had put enough distance between himself and the city walls, released most of his hold on the winds. He entered a gradual descent, eventually landing atop a flat roof in one of the slums in Ullek's southern regions, where they were most prevalent.

Avis realized that he recognized his surroundings. He had landed in the same slum that Farrah's shop was located in. What were the odds?

The boy took a step forward, but his leg gave out and he collapsed, causing him to fall on his back. He frowned when he found he wasn't able to get back up from where he was lying. The world seemed to be whiting out as well, the colors becoming bleached. His hearing was also affected; everything sounded…distant…as if he were hearing the world from underwater.

That was when Avis remembered the pain he had felt when he had soared over the archers manning Ullek's wall. The pain had not gone away; Avis had simply ignored it because he could not afford to pay attention to it, not when he was over a hundred feet in the air. Now, he felt it completely, without inhibition. He also realized that he could barely breathe—it felt as if someone had put a pillow over his mouth.

The boy raised his head, looking down at his chest, where the pain was coming from. Sure enough, the feathered shaft of an arrow was protruding from his middle-right torso. It had missed his vest, which he always wore unbuttoned, and gone right through his unprotected flesh, definitely puncturing his right lung, which explained why he found it hard to breathe. The arrowhead and a good part of the shaft were still buried inside of him. Blood was running freely from the wound. Avis knew that if he didn't get help before he lost consciousness, he would bleed out.

Avis rolled over onto his side, careful to avoid hitting the arrow shaft, and pushed himself up to his knees. The boy shook his head again, temporarily staving off his passing out. He hobbled over to the edge of the roof and leaped off, using another burst of wind to cushion his landing. He then started sprinting down the cobbled street, his bare footfalls almost echoing off of the stone buildings. He had never worn boots or sandals for a long time.

When he started to slow down, Avis would propel himself forward with more wind. He would also use wind to keep himself upright, stopping himself from falling over or tripping. If he fell now, he wouldn't have the energy to get back up.

Avis turned down a back alleyway that ran through to the adjacent street. Avis knew that if he followed this road, eventually it ran into the street that Farrah's shop was on. This street twisted and turned several times before it actually reached the street Avis needed.

By the time Avis stumbled onto the correct road, he was out of breath and beginning to get delirious. He felt unconsciousness coming on fast, and there wasn't anything he could really do to stave it off anymore. His time was up.

There wasn't anyone else on the street to help him—this slum had been deserted for years. Avis kept on going as long as he could, but Farrah's shop was too far away. He wasn't going to make it on his own.

Avis stumbled past another back alley, but he lost his footing on a raised cobblestone and fell to his knees, and then went down on all fours. A drop of blood fell from his mouth and he tried crawling forward, but his strength was gone.

Suddenly, Avis felt a strong grip on his shoulders. Someone turned him over and swore, seeing the arrow lodged in his gut. Another voice joined the first one, a higher-pitched voice. A girl. Avis recognized the two voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. All he heard was noise…gibberish.

Avis tried to say something, but he stopped mid-sentence when he realized that he wasn't even talking. His mouth hadn't even moved.

The last thing he felt before darkness claimed him was someone touching his face and whispering, "_It's going to be okay_."

* * *

Farrah snipped off the feathered end of the arrow embedded in Avis's chest, tossing it into the porcelain basin he had set down next to the table which he had laid Avis out on. He had removed the pale-skinned boy's black cloth vest and made sure he was heavily sedated before proceeding.

"He gonna be alright?"

Farrah looked up at Jafa. It had been the sixteen-year-old who had spoken. He and Lessa had been doing God knows what out in the back alleys, but several minutes ago they had crashed back into the shop upstairs with Avis. The boy was unconscious with an arrow in his chest. Not a good combination. "Hard to say," the old Menaphite sighed, running two fingers through his long white beard. "The arrow went straight through his right lung…he has minor internal bleeding, but the blood is filling up his bronchial cavity-"

"In _Arrish_, please," Jafa rolled his eyes, not understanding a word of what Farrah had said.

"His lungs are filling up with blood, and if I can't patch up the tissue and stop the bleeding, he is going to die," Farrah laid it out plainly.

Lessa walked in a moment later, holding a tray with Farrah's surgical instruments, as well as a bowl of water. "I got what you asked for," the fifteen-year-old orphan girl said, setting the tray down on the table, right next to the porcelain basin. "Even the water…what do you need that for, anyway? I thought you're supposed to use alcohol for sterilization."

"You'll see," was all Farrah would say. He quickly crossed over to the other side of the room and rummaged through several the cabinets until he found the one full of bottles of rubbing alcohol. He grabbed one.

The old man returned to his makeshift operating table and grabbed a second bowl. He filled it with the rubbing alcohol, setting the bottle down next to it. Before he did anything else, he took the surgical instruments and sanitized them in the alcohol. If he did not do this, the germs on the instruments could cause potentially deadly infections. "Alright. Lessa, you're going to be helping me. Are your hands washed?"

"Mm-hm," the girl nodded.

"Good; we can start right away. We'll have to move fast; time is of the essence. The Gods have plans for him…he _cannot_ die on this table…" Farrah took a deep breath, calmed himself down, and got to work. "Hand me the scalpel, please."

Lessa selected the wickedly-sharp, curved instrument and presented it to Farrah handle-first.

"Thank you…" Farrah murmured. He inserted the tip of the scalpel right at the point where the arrow had gone in, drawing it out several inches. He then placed the scalpel tip on the other side of the arrow shaft and repeated the same procedure, completing the incision. "Okay…rib spreaders," the old man requested next.

Lessa grabbed the instrument that looked like a capital 'F' and gave it to Farrah, taking back the scalpel.

Farrah took the rib spreaders. He also grabbed the bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured a small amount of it around the incision, careful not to get any _inside_ the cut. The alcohol cleared away the blood, which Lessa dabbed up with a towel.

"If you have a weak stomach, now's the time to look away," the old Menaphite warned Jafa and Lessa, but neither orphan moved. Farrah opened up the incision, gazing down at Avis's exposed ribcage and internal organs. Lessa and Jafa both blinked at the sight, but both still refused turned away, no matter how much they wanted to vomit.

Farrah clucked with the tip of his tongue. The arrow had gone right in between Avis's fourth and fifth ribs on his right side. Had it been the left side, it would have hit his heart. He wanted to probe further, but there was nothing he could do until he got those ribs out of his way, so he gently eased the rib spreaders into Avis's chest cavity, placing the two spreader arms in between the fourth and fifth ribs. He then turned the screw on the lower arm that moved it down the length of the spreader, away from the upper arm. This effectively spread the two ribs apart from each other, giving Farrah enough room to work. This also kept the incision open, so Farrah didn't have to constantly keep the skin held apart.

"Hold this," Farrah said to Jafa. The sixteen-year-old hurried over and grabbed hold of the rib spreaders, keeping them steady. The old man then took a long, thin rod of steel and probed around, seeing the full extent of the damage. He checked around the back of the right lung, seeing if the arrowhead had gone through the other side. It had. "That's good…" he murmured to himself.

"What's good?" Lessa asked, overhearing the old Menaphite.

"The arrowhead went all the way through the lung; it isn't stuck inside," the old man explained. "If it was, I would have to pull it out, which would cause even more damage."

"How do you get it out when it's all the way through, then?" Jafa asked.

Farrah did not immediately answer. Instead, he cast his eyes around the room, looking for something that would make the next step in the operation work. "Lessa, can you drag that table over here?" the old man asked the girl, gesturing to the next table over with his head.

Lessa quickly left her station and pulled the table over, as requested.

"Okay, I'm going to move Avinius a little bit…" Farrah murmured. "Whatever you do, don't move him too quickly. Jafa, keep hold of those spreaders."

With that, Farrah and Lessa eased Avis around and off the edge of the table he was lying on. They slowly, gently pulled him over and placed his head and shoulders on the second table, so the part of his chest with the wound was over the open space.

"Okay…okay, Jafa, I need you to do a job for me," Farrah said.

"Anything."

"Lessa, grab the spreaders for him," Farrah ordered. Lessa took over Jafa's job, giving Farrah a thumbs-up once she had a firm hold on the rib spreaders. "Okay, Jafa, I'm going to tell you how we're going to get the arrow out. It's going to be done the exact same way a fisherman removes a fishhook. I'm going to push it down through his back, and you are going to cut off the arrowhead."

"You're joking."

"I'm not going to be _shoving_ it through," Farrah clarified. "I'm gently easing it through the skin of his back. There is no muscle tissue that I will be damaging that has not already been hit; just skin, which will heal in a matter of days. This is medicine, my friend."

"Alright…" Jafa worked his jaw around, like he wanted to say something, but the words just wouldn't come out. "Alright, fine, I'll do it…damn it all; this kid's gonna owe me _big_ for this…" Jafa pulled out his dagger and lay down on the floor between the two tables, right under Avis's back.

Farrah grasped the arrow shaft and, with the ease and patience of a craftsman micro-detailing a sculpture, began to ease it downwards. He heard blood dripping onto the floor below and knew that he had broken through the skin, but he kept on going. "Tell me when it's far enough," the old man called down to Jafa.

"Right, whatever you say," Jafa mumbled, moving his head so that the blood didn't hit him.

Farrah pushed the shaft down another few inches before Jafa told him to stop. The sixteen-year-old pressed his knife to the arrow shaft and sliced off the arrowhead, catching it as it fell and handing it up to Farrah. "It's done," he said.

"Excellent…" Farrah murmured. Now, without the arrowhead, the old man was able to easily pull the shaft out of Avis's body. With that done, he cleaned the hole in Avis's back with the rubbing alcohol and smeared a sealing salve onto it which would accelerate its healing as well as repel infection.

That done, the old man moved Avis back onto the first table and resumed his operation. "Alright…now it gets a tad bit messy…" he murmured. He reached into his robe and pulled out a smooth, light gray stone that seemed to glow with a faint blue aura. On it was an etched symbol of a water drop.

"Is that a…a _runestone?_" Lessa asked, gazing at the stone in wonder.

Farrah didn't answer. He dipped his hand into the bowl of water and the stone started glowing a soft blue. As it did this, the water wrapped around Farrah's hand like a glove.

"You're a…you're a _mage_…" Jafa breathed, pretty much stating the obvious.

Farrah gently reached _into_ Avis's chest and, with the utmost care, cupped the pierced, blood-filled right lung. The water actually started to shine, sparkling white and cyan, as if the sun were shining through it.

Avis convulsed, his back arching into the air.

"_Hold him!_" Farrah shouted. This was the most delicate part of the healing process; if it got messed up _now_, there was no going back.

Jafa got up onto the table and pressed his knees down onto Avis's shoulders, pinning him back down onto the table. He used his hands to press down on the pale-skinned boy's arms, sufficiently immobilizing him enough for Farrah's satisfaction.

Farrah continued what he was doing. After a minute, Avis's whole lung was enveloped in Farrah's water. The old man's eyes were closed and his brow was furrowed in concentration as he focused his energy. The water enveloping Avis's lung grew brighter and brighter with each passing second until the lung looked as if it were covered by a film of pure light.

Jafa tried to look, but the light grew so bright that he had to avert his eyes.

Then Farrah finished, and the light faded away. The water returned to Farrah's hand, which the old man pulled out of Avis's chest cavity, allowing the water and blood to cascade off of his fingers and into the bowl. "I'd rather not do that again for a very long time…" the old man murmured.

The lung was completely healed when Farrah pulled away. It looked as if it had never been hit by an arrow at all—there wasn't even a blemish on the tissue. All of the blood vessels had also been repaired; the bleeding had gone down considerably. Avis had also stopped trying to seize up, so Jafa was able to get back down off of the table.

"Alright, Lessa, I'll take over here," Farrah grabbed hold of the rib spreaders, allowing Lessa to step away before taking full control. He cranked the screw of the retractors and moved the two spreader arms back together, allowing Avis's fourth and fifth ribs to settle back into their original positions.

Farrah then spent the next half hour sewing the incision shut with Kalphite spider-silk thread. Once he was finished, he tied the thread off, snipped it with a knife, and sterilized the wound one last time with the alcohol.

"You were a mage this whole time?" Jafa said as Farrah cleaned up the last traces of his work on Avis. "I've known you for most of my life, and you were a _mage_ the entire time?"

"Retired," the old man shrugged. "I fought with the Temple Knights once upon a time, back when I was a youth. Turned out I had an aptitude for magic… I'm not the strongest mage you'll ever meet, but I can hold my own in battle. I specialize in healing, however. The element of Water is my Oléthe, my natural element…the healing element."

"If you're so good at healing, why didn't you just heal the entire wound, rather than only the lung?" Lessa asked.

"It takes energy to do what I just did," Farrah explained. "Instantly healing all those layers of tissue, as well as the blood vessels with nothing but pure energy can take it out of you. And besides…sometimes it's better to allow nature to run its course. I used magic to save his life…now his body will do the rest. It is better that way."

"Still can't believe you never _told_ us any of this…" Jafa muttered, unwilling to let his disbelief go.

"There was no point," Farrah shrugged again. "Whenever you were hurt, I healed you, though you never knew it. That was enough. In this day and age, the less people who know you are a mage, the better. Now, if you'll excuse me…I have somewhere I need to be. Wait an hour, then move Avinius into a bed, would you?"

* * *

Farrah climbed up the stairs into his shop and walked out into the street, breathing in the fresh air. Even if he did not need to be somewhere right now, he would have come outside anyway. He was thankful that he had never had to cut into human bodies very often. He had only done so as a last resort…having an arrow through a lung was definitely a last-resort situation, but still…Farrah never felt comfortable probing around inside another person's body. It was a place he felt he did not belong.

The old Menaphite pulled his Badb pipe out of his robes and lit it with a flint striker. Puffing on his pipe, the old man made his way down the street and out of the slum.

The sun was going down, bathing the city in a shower of rich, amber light. It seemed so beautiful to Farrah…probably because the old man knew that this was likely one of the last times Ullek would ever experience a sunset.

Farrah avoided the Plaza and the other more populated points in the city, keeping to the back roads. After nearly an hour of walking, he neared the city's north wall. He was relieved to see that the Qarat had not yet locked this part of the wall down—civilians could still ascend it.

The old Menaphite found a ladder on a more out-of-the-way section of the northern city wall and climbed all the way up to the top. The city walls were at least a hundred feet tall, so the climb was a somewhat longer one than normal. Farrah was not as frail as he looked, though. He managed just fine.

Farrah smoothed down his beard as he climbed on top of the wall, patting down stray hairs. Then, still puffing on his Badb pipe, he strolled along the battlements until he reached a tall, golden statue of Tumeken, the Desert God of the Sun. This was his proposed meeting point. All he had to do was wait.

The old man leaned against the battlements, smoking his pipe and looking out over the small forest to the north of the city. There was swampland hidden under those trees, which were able to exist out here because of the proximity to the coast. Underground rivers ran through that area, irrigating the place and allowing a forest to grow.

This was good for Ullek, too; it gave the city water, as well as wood, which served as one of the most important items of trade that kept the city's economy strong.

Not that it would matter much longer. Farrah knew that those monsters attacking from the south were not the whole threat. They were barely even a fraction. They were a distraction…something to keep the Qarat busy.

There was something else out there, something else that was coming. Farrah could feel it in his core. It wasn't a question of who or what…only _when_. Farrah had a terrible feeling that Ullek was about to come to an end. The Qarat was a good fighting force, but they were not organized like the Centralian Legions. If attacked by a large enough force of monsters, they would easily crumble.

There was no one to help them, either. Uzer was having problems of its own up north. Farrah had heard rumors of Centralian legions fighting in the Empire as well, but they were up north of the Shantay Pass, well out of reach. No…in this fight, Ullek was alone.

Farrah felt a rustle of wind behind him, prompting the old man to turn around.

A man appeared over the inner edge of the wall, seemingly rising of his own accord. Farrah glanced down and saw that the other man was standing on a carpet, which was rising through the air until it was flush with the battlements, at which point the other man stepped off.

The other man was an older gentleman. Not as old as Farrah, but not too far behind. He was dressed in a black traveler's cloak and was wearing a leather cowl that obscured most of his face. He had a dagger in his belt and was leaning on a gnarly wooden staff with an orb at the top that seemed to glow many colors at once. Just as he stepped off of the carpet, the older man reached up and pushed back his cowl, revealing a lightly-lined face with its fair share of scars, stormy gray eyes, a fringe of dark gray hair, and a straight nose. He also had bristly, closely-trimmed facial hair around his mouth and chin. At first glance, he looked like a grandfather who still had the look of youth, despite his mostly bald head and gray hair.

At second glance, he looked like a man on a mission who looked more than ready to use the weapons which he was armed with.

To Farrah, he looked like another one of his old friends from his youth. The old Menaphite smiled; this was the man whom Saradomin had said he would send for Avis.

"It's been a long time, Jerrod," Farrah clasped his old friend's arm, grasping him in a tight embrace.

Jerrod reciprocated the hug, then let go. "Too long, Farrah," the Cleric grinned. The smile seemed forced, however. Farrah noticed this.

"What is the matter, old friend?"

Jerrod fixed Farrah with the gaze of a man who has seen something terrible. "I…uh…on my way here, I passed a few things…and one huge thing…let me show you-"

Jerrod closed his eyes and placed his palm against Farrah's forehead. The old Menaphite closed his eyes as well. In his mind's eye, he saw the desert flying by faster than the eagle flies. He knew that he was seeing into Jerrod's memories. The Cleric wanted him to see something _he_ had seen.

It was an army. A horde…thousands, _hundreds_ of thousands of monsters, all marching in a single, massive, colossal group. At their head was a coal-black demon which towered over everything else. It had three faces—one in front, and the other two on either side of its head. All of the faces were identical, except for the eyes. The center face had yellow eyes, the right face had red eyes, and the left face had green eyes. It wielded a blade of dark metal which seemed to whisper its thirst for blood.

Farrah's eyes snapped open. The old Menaphite realized that he had broken out into a cold sweat, still trembling at the sight of the horde. "Was that…" Farrah gulped, "Was that-"

"Balfrug-Kreeyath the three-faced demon, leader of the horde sent to raze Ullek and capture the boy, second-in-command to the elder-demon Thammaron himself?" Jerrod finished the question for the old Menaphite. "Yeah, that's _probably_ him. It was the three faces that gave it away for me, personally; don't know about you."

Farrah shook his head, not knowing how Jerrod could find humor in a time like this. "How far away are they?"

"They're on the other side of the hill beyond the forest," Jerrod replied grimly. "You can hear them marching if you listen carefully. Give it ten minutes; you'll see them plain as day, coming right towards this place."

"We must alert the Qarat-"

"What we _must_ do," Jerrod corrected his old friend, "is get the boy out of this city. Whether the Qarat see this horde coming or not makes no difference. Ullek is finished. You already know this. What you need to do is get all your friends, and get the hell _out_ of this place. Flee to Sophanem in the south."

"And what of you? How will you get away? You cannot teleport in the Desert; Zamorak has made this impossible."

"Take me to the boy," Jerrod replied. "Once I'm with _him_…I'll play the rest by ear."

"_Play by ear?_" Farrah echoed, shaking his head and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "Saradomin help us, Jerrod; you haven't changed a bit."

"Believe me," Jerrod clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "That's a _good_ thing."


	16. Chapter 16: Shantay Pass

Chapter Sixteen: Shantay Pass

Warmaster Athellenas took off his helm, wiping off his forehead with an already-dirty rag. The hot desert sun was out in all its glory today, beating down upon the thousands of Centralian soldiers who dared to defy it by marching through the desert under its powerful glare.

"Warmaster," Sir Derren was pointing up ahead. "One of our scouts is reporting back."

Sure enough, a man on horseback came into view, galloping at full clip towards Athellenas's position at the head of the advance.

The Warmaster spurred Onyx on, riding forward to meet with the scout so they would be able to converse in private. "Greetings, Sir Gellart!" Athellenas called over to the approaching scout.

Sir Gellart gave a respectful nod and salute in reply. "Warmaster, sir…my men are within sight of the Shantay Pass. We're about an hour's march away."

Athellenas nodded. This made sense. The Centralian 1st Element had been marching south through sporadic hills and the occasional mountain for the past day, now. It was certainly a welcome change from the dune-filled, bleak desert they had been forced to slog through since they left Iunu. There were two large mountains just up ahead that seemed to fill up the sky, and the 1st Element was heading for the pass that ran in between them. It was the only way to get from the northern section of the Menaphite Empire to the southern reaches.

"What does it look like down there?" the Warmaster asked next, gesturing for the scout to fall into step next to him as he continued to ride forward.

"Two sheer walls of rock rising up on either side, with a large white stone wall blocking the way-"

"No, I know what Shantay Pass looks like," Athellenas corrected the scout. "I mean what does the enemy presence look like?"

"Substantial…for lack of a better term," Gellart replied hesitantly. "Thre's…sir, that is…there's a _lot_ of them, sir. Vampyres, death knights…undead…some monsters I don't even recognize…"

"Did you see who is heading up the defenses there?" Athellenas asked that, stopping the scout from drifting off.

Sir Gellart quickly shook his head, clearing his mind, and answered. "We—uh…I think so, yes. It was a demon…a _big_ one...yellow skin, black eyes, five tails…ring any bells?"

"Sounds like our old pal Fel-Ugrroth…" Athellenas murmured. The scouts description _did_ strike a chord in the Warmaster; Athellenas and Jerrod had clashed with a five-tailed yellow demon during one of their escapades into the Wilderness. The Warmaster still had a scar on his chest to attest to that.

"Sir?" the scout asked, not understanding what the Warmaster meant.

"I fought this demon a couple decades ago…" Athellenas started to explain, but he then shrugged and brought his mind back to the present. "Bah—it matters not. We've killed demons before, and we'll do it again. Report back to your observations," the Warmaster ordered Sir Gellart. "If anything critical arises, make haste back to me."

"It will be done," the scout nodded. He reined in his horse and dug his boots into its sides, speeding off into the mountains ahead.

* * *

Athellenas gazed across the wide-open stretch of land that lay in between the ridge he was on and the solid white wall of the Shantay Pass. The wall extended up sixty or seventy feet into the air, and it spanned the entire gap between the two cliffs that formed the Pass, a distance of roughly three miles. Every inch of it was manned by groups and lines of roaring, jeering monsters, calling for the blood of Athellenas and his men. The land in front of the pass was a mixture of fine sand and granite stones. It was all flat. There was also a wide dirt road that ran through the center of the Pass, which was used by all individuals who traveled through the area.

The road was empty now…but it was about to be filled again with soldiers. It wound its way through the Pass until it reached the Shatay Wall's gate. None could see the road continue past that point…though they would if the battle on the morrow was won.

"What do you make of this?" Athellenas asked the other members of his impromptu council of war, gesturing to the land ahead. "I have my own conclusions, but I would like to hear your opinions as well."

The others took a few minutes to scrutinize the future battlefield, formulating their own opinions. Sir Havarell was the first to speak.

"Cavalry is not going to be of much use, here," the old horsemaster murmured. "Too closed in for wide-scale operations. The only time I think we could be any help would be after the Wall is breached…we can push through and mow down retreating monsters. But other than that…"

"He's right," General Sinclar, who had finally recovered from the wounds he had received in Iunu, agreed. "This will be a footsoldier's fight."

"Agreed," Athellenas nodded. "Sir Derren; when we are finished here, have the surgeons set up the hospital tents behind this ridge. Sir Havarell, I want your men to be our rearguard. They will be posted around the hospital tents and the supply wagons. They will dig trenches in front of this ridge, which will serve as our fallback point should the battle go ill."

"They will not like this, sir," the cavalry commander chuckled.

"They shall have their turn," Athellenas replied. "We _all_ will. See to it."

Sir Havarell and Sir Derren both nodded.

"Now…back to business."

Sir Brezhnov, the hulking, bear-like, dark-haired artillery commander from the Fremmenik Provinces of northwestern Centralia gave a throaty grumble as he eyed the various vantage and angle points in the Pass. "With your permission, Warmaster, I would place my trebuchets on this here ridge, as well as the long-range mortar. Does this conflict with any of your plans?"

"It does not," Athellenas shook his head.

"I shall have my captains deploy our field gunneries below. We will advance with your infantry. If the Zamorackian scum dares to face us on the field, we shall crush them like glass beneath our boots."

"And what of Fel-Ungrroth?"

It had been Paladin Anesti who had spoken. Athellenas glanced up at the Saradominist warrior. "How did you know-"

Paladin Anesti held up a hand, quelling the Warmaster. "_How_ I know is irrelevant. What matters is that the horde guarding this pass is under the command of a powerful demon who I can assure you is definitely _not_ going to turn tail and flee. Never mind breaching the Wall; if we want this Pass, we are going to have to kill Fel-Ungrroth."

"The five-tailed demon could make short work of a company of footsoldiers," General Airoh sighed. "Our boys are good fighters; we all know they are…but greater demons are out of their league. This is a job for…professionals."

"Let _me_ have the bastard," Sir Brezhnov grunted, the fire in his coal-black eyes beginning to spark. "Bring 'im in front of one o' my guns, and _BOOM!_" the grizzled artillery commander clapped and spread his hands, simulating an explosion.

"I hardly think gunpowder and metal will be enough to bring down a greater demon," Paladin Anesti interjected. "This is a job for-"

"For what? Magic? _Pah_-" Sir Brezhnov uttered the word like a curse, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "Our cannons are brand-new, the fruits of our advancing technology. That demon has walked this world for millennia, and never before has it encountered anything like our cannons. In all that time, _magic_ has not been able to bring it down. Time for something new, says I."

"How amusing, Warmaster," Anesti gave a forced smile. "I did not know that the Centralian Army employed simple-minded savages as _commanders_, much less common soldiers. Allow me to put this into simple terms so that he can understand."

Brezhnov's lip curled in a savage snarl. He drew his blade and took a step towards the Paladin. Anesti settled down into a defensive stance, raising his hands in front of him, one hand curled in a fist and the other resting on top of it. Small tongues of flame appeared at his fingertips.

"_Enough_." Athellenas stepped between his two subordinates. "Brezhnov, while you are in a council of war with me, you will restrain your temper. And you-" the Warmaster turned to Anesti. "When your mouth opens, I expect to hear nothing less than the sound of you positively contributing to my war effort. I'm afraid insulting my artillery commander does not fit within those parameters. Am I understood?"

Both Anesti and Brezhnov muttered a reluctant, "Yes, Warmaster."

"Good. Now that we are all close and dear friends with one another once more, let us return to the matter at hand. Deploy your gunnery, Brezhnov. As for the demon…" Athellenas cleared his throat and made sure he had the attention of all of his commanders before continuing. "As for Fel-Ungrroth, you are right, Anesti; we _must _kill him before we can proceed. However, we no longer have Jerrod with us…and even if he were still here, I doubt even _he_ could bring the five-tailed demon down on his own. We are going to have to work together to succeed. Brezhnov…I'm going to need a few of your cannons…"

Athellenas proceeded to outline his plan to take down Fel-Ungrroth to his commanders, particularly to Brezhnov and Anesti. They would both be instrumental.

"Of course, this is only _after_ we manage to breach the wall and break the back of the enemy horde. If we can do that…" Athellenas's voice trailed off.

There was silence for a few seconds before Paladin Anesti spoke up once more. "I have reservations about your plan, Warmaster…but I believe it is a sound one."

"Anything that involves my guns blowing the dickens out of Zamorak's meatbags is a good plan in my eyes," Sir Brezhnov said gruffly. "I'll see to it."

"I believe that concludes things here," Athellenas announced finally. "Our boys have been marching through the hot sun all day; I will not send them into battle in this condition. Have your men set up camp and turn in for the night. Eat a good dinner. At first light tomorrow morning…we attack. Dismissed."

"_Warmaster!_" all of the commanders bowed their heads and clasped their fists to their hearts in a salute, then turned on their heels and headed down the ridge to the valley below, where the soldiers were encamped.

Athellenas remained alone at the edge of the ridge, observing the monster-infested wall. He decided that it would be best to open with a customary artillery barrage, then send one of the legions forward with a battering ram. They could force the gates open.

The angles of the gate in relation to the 1st Element's position made it very difficult for Brezhnov's long-range mortar cannon to line up a shot that could hit the gates, so the job would have to be done the old-fashioned way. Make no mistake, though; that gate _would_ fall. The monsters may have managed to take it from the Menaphites, but they had not yet faced off with the Centralian legions.

When Brezhnov's men arrived on the ridge with their wagons and equipment and began to set up the trebuchets, Athellenas took his leave. He returned to the rapidly-forming army camp of the 1st Element, found Onyx, and quickly set up his tent. The Warmaster climbed into his bedroll and shut his eyes, waiting for the calming darkness of sleep to claim him.

It was going to be a big day tomorrow.

"Forward! _Forward!_" Athellenas drew his runite blade, holding it up to the sky. The sword flashed cyan as the light of the rising sun caught it. The men of the IV Legion quickened their pace until they were advancing towards the wall at a light jog.

Athellenas rode alongside General Sinclair, leading the attack on the Shantay Pass Wall. Monsters of Zamorak lined the Wall as well, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Athellenas's men. More Saradominist blood to spill.

The earth trembled and the air roared as a storm of flaming comets tore through the sky from above, soaring over the advancing soldiers' heads, and slammed into the Wall. Sir Brezhnov was firing his opening barrage.

Athellenas glanced over to the left. The 1st Element's battering ram was being pushed towards the gate; it was a sight to see. The ram was a large contraption comprising of an armored carriage containing a swinging wooden log, which was capped with adamantite metal. The soldiers called it _Reaper_.

"General!" Athellenas called over to Sinclair. "Send a man over to the I Legion's advance—tell General Airoh to tighten up his left flank! His boys are getting too spread out!"

General Sinclair didn't even bother replying to Athellenas's order. He simply acted, sending out one of his aides to do the deed.

Another barrage of Brezhnov's very best surprises rumbled through the air, tearing into the Wall. Great chunks of the white rock were torn asunder, flying every which way. Monsters that were in the way were savagely pulped by the flaming projectiles.

The gate began to open suddenly. Athellenas hesitated; he had not been expecting the monsters to sally forth from the wall. It was too late to muster the cavalry—they were too far behind. The infantry was going to have to face the Zamorackians alone.

Well…maybe not _completely_ alone.

"_Muster the cannons!_" Athellenas bellowed. His command was relayed down the advance until it reached the artillerists, who were pushing the cannons up along with the legions. At the Warmaster's command, the infantry halter while the cannons continued to move up.

While this was happening, a large group of death knights, twisted Human cultists, werewolves, and undead were pouring out of the gate, forming up into a huge horde. More and more monsters were bubbling forth from the gate, joining in the charge forward.

"_Archers! To the front!_" Athellenas ordered next.

The boiling mass of Zamorackian filth kept on charging across the open sand towards the 1st Element's line. The centurions called for a volley. A loud collective_ twang_ was heard as thousands of archers fired their payload at the same time. A cloud of arrows sailed up into the sky before curving back over and shooting straight down into the charging Zamorackian horde.

Dozens of monsters howled in pain as the arrows took them down. Many of the enemy fell…but in the grand scheme of things, the losses incurred by the volley of arrows was painfully dismal.

No problem, though. Arrows weren't the only weapon in Athellenas's arsenal. He had technology on his side.

When the charging horde came within range, the field cannons in Sir Brezhnov's forward gunnery all roared to life. They fired grapeshot—a type of round that fragmented after being fired, turning into a hail of smaller projectiles that, at certain distances, could take down entire crowds of people. Or monsters, in this case.

The grapeshot tore into the horde of monsters, this time dealing horrific damage. Anything that was in the forward fringe of the advance was instantly cut down, and anything behind that did not escape unscathed.

"_Reload!_" an artillery captain was shouting.

"Archers! Give 'em another one!" Athellenas bellowed.

More arrows whizzed through the sky and into the oncoming tide of monsters, taking down the wounded from the cannon barrage. It didn't stop the rest of the horde, however. They just kept on coming like the tides of the sea, disregarding their dying comrades.

The soldiers all drew their weapons, getting ready for some close-quarters fighting.

The cannons roared again, cutting giant swathes through the monsters…but it still wasn't enough. Athellenas also knew that there wasn't enough time for them to reload before the monsters crashed into them. He hurriedly ordered the artillery to retreat to the ridge, where the heavier field guns had been entrenched.

Athellenas risked a glance upwards towards the Wall and saw that monsters were still pouring out of the gate. There was no end to the beasts…they just kept on _coming_…

The monsters crashed right into the soldiers' front line of pikemen. The werewolves that had been leading the charge were skewered, but there were dozens more to replace them from behind.

The pikemen abandoned their spears and drew swords, but many were cut down before they could successfully complete the transition between the two weapons. Within a full minute, the tight formations of the three legions of the 1st Element was broken into a massive bloodbath of savage monsters and soldiers desperately fighting for their lives.

Athellenas lost count of how many times he brought his blade cleaving down into a werewolf's skull, or stabbing through a gap in a death knight's armor. The undead were the worst—the only thing that killed them was a blow to the head. Decapitation worked as well, but a secondary blow was required to destroy the severed head, which would still be very much alive. Athellenas, when dealing with undead ghouls, did not decapitate them. He simply lopped off the tops of their heads, destroying the brain. Or at least what had _used_ to be their brain.

Athellenas's rust-red armor was splattered with the blood of the monsters. His shaggy gray beard was soaked through by the time he was able to risk another glance up. The monsters were still coming through the gate, and there were already tens of thousands of beasts arrayed against Athellenas on the battlefield, not to mention the ones that were already mingling with his embattled soldiers.

A loud cracking noise coming from the left attracted Athellenas's attention. He looked over just in time to see Reaper, the 1st Element's battering ram, collapse in a mess of splintered wood and shattered beams. The men pushing it were all dead, butchered by death knights.

Athellenas had just lost his ticket through the Shantay Wall's gate. Any further fighting on this field was now pointless until he could find another way, which left him with only one viable option.

"Sound the retreat!" Athellenas shouted to one of his aides, who was in the process of lopping off the head of an attacking death knight.

"Warmaster?" the aide hadn't quite heard him. Or maybe he had, and he couldn't quite believe the order.

"_Sound the retreat!_" Athellenas repeated himself, louder this time. "Do it now!"

The aide hesitantly raised his horn to his lips and blew three long notes. Centurions and the generals heard the signal and passed it on. "Fall back! _Fall back!_"

The cry was taken up by the soldiers themselves. Slowly, gradually, the Centralians broke formation and hurried back towards the ridge where the field hospitals had been erected. Any wounded who were able to travel were carried off. Those who were too far gone were…put out of their misery before the monsters could have their way with them.

The retreat took a full hour. Getting every soldier detached from the fighting was not an easy task, especially with bloodthirsty monsters on their tail every step of the way. The archers were able to keep some of the monsters slowed down with volleys of arrows, but they were not organized, deadly volleys. It was more made of individual archers turning and firing as they ran away.

Athellenas beheaded one last death knight before reining in Onyx and galloping back towards his lines. The majority of the soldiers had gotten themselves settled in the trenches, with only a few hundred more still climbing into safety. Athellenas was one of the last to climb past the trenches.

The very moment the area in front of the trenches was clear, Sir Brezhnov thundered the order to fire all of his cannons.

All of the field gunneries, including the forward gunnery which had been advancing with the legions, shook the ground with their massive reports. Not all of the cannons fired grapeshot, however. Athellenas noticed that some of the shots impacted their targets and detonated in a huge, fiery explosion that vaporized anything within a twenty-foot radius. It was almost frightening how utterly _devastating_ the destructive forces of these cannons were. _Almost_ frightening. When the cannons were on your side, it tended to be more exhilarating.

Soldiers whooped and cheered as the monsters kept trying to breach the impenetrable defense thrown up by the cannonfire, but ended up getting repulsed each time. Finally, there was a loud, bone-shilling roar that came from the other side of the wall. It was a sound only a demon was capable of making. Fel-Ungrroth was giving orders.

Every single monster on the field, still roughly fifteen thousand strong, turned where they stood—or crawled—and fled back in the direction of the Wall.

"Warmaster!" Sir Derren rode up alongside Athellenas as the soldiers continued to voice their jubilation at still being alive. "Casualty figures are coming in as we speak. Last I heard, IV Legion suffered about-"

"I don't want to hear it, Derren," Athellenas cut his second-in-command off. "This battle is not yet over; the figures will only increase. We've just lost our battering ram, which was our only way through that damn gate…" Athellenas, even as he spoke, was beginning to formulate a backup plan In his mind. All he could think of were the huge explosions of the cannon rounds on the field… he still needed a way to the gate unmolested, however, which was impossible without the battering ram. Unless…

"Call another council of war," Athellenas ordered Sir Derren. "I think it's high time we rethink our strategy."


	17. Chapter 17: Fall of Ullek

Chapter Seventeen: Fall of Ullek

By the time the Qarat managed to get troops onto the north wall, it was too late. The horde from the north, led by the three-faced demon Balfrug-Kreeyath, Thammaron's lieutenant, had already arrived.

Jerrod had not been able to see what meager defense the Qarat tried to throw up, but the deafening string of explosions, followed by the unmistakable sound of tumbling stone, suggested that it was unsuccessful. The northern wall had definitely fallen.

"The walls have been breached," Farrah murmured, hearing the sound as well. "We are out of time."

"Why weren't there any backup troops stationed along the north wall to _begin_ with?" Jerrod asked, his tactician's mind nearly bursting with incredulity. "Did they not take into account that the Zamorackians would attack from more than one direction? What kind of incompetents do you Menaphites have running your armies?"

"Our army is not the Centralian Army," Farrah shrugged, leading Jerrod down another twisting back alley. "It is not a unified force…more like several small armies, each from a different city. We have never needed to mobilize all our Empire's strength into one giant force before."

"Until now," Jerrod said. "And _now_, it is too late. The northern reaches of the Empire are gone, Ullek is now gone, and Uzer is next. Very soon, the Menaphites will be very hard-pressed to find a _home,_ let alone muster an army."

"We still have Sophanem in the south," Farrah sighed. "The demons will be hard-pressed to reach that city—it has the personal protection of Tumeken and Icthlarin, two of our most revered Gods."

Jerrod subtly rolled his eyes, but did not make any other sound. He knew that Farrah vested great faith in the Gods of the Desert, and although Jerrod was not himself an overly religious and certainly not a reverent man—he was still trying to convince Saradomin to play a game of rummy with him—he was not disrespectful of the faith of others. If Farrah felt that Sophanem would be protected…well, then, Jerrod hoped with all his heart that he was right.

"You have an escape plan, old friend?" Jerrod finally asked after Farrah led him onto another street that ran through what appeared to be a slum. "I'd sleep better at night knowing you had a chance of getting out of here."

"Don't you worry about me, Jerrod," Farrah chuckled. "I'm taking the orphans and getting out through the sewers. They connect to ancient magma tunnels that run straight to Sophanem. We'll be fine. You're the one we need to worry about."

"Is the boy at the place where you are taking me?" Jerrod asked next.

"Yes; I would not dream of delaying you in such a way," Farrah assured the Cleric. The old Menaphite hurried further down the road until it broke into a fork. He took Jerrod down the left-hand road and followed it until he arrived at his defunct antique shop.

"We're here," Farrah said, striding through the entrance space.

"Doesn't look like you get much business," Jerrod observed, glancing at the cobwebs that covered the shelves and trinkets inside the store.

"This part of Ullek has been deserted for many years," Farrah explained, opening up the hidden hatch in the back of the shop that led down to the basement. "I've never made money from the store—that is just a front. For years, now, I have sheltered orphans…but I need them as much as they need me. I provide them with a safe haven, and in return they keep me fed and clothed."

"They go out and steal, you mean?" Jerrod raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you were the thieving type."

"We all do what we can to survive here," Farrah shrugged. "I do not extort the orphans; I require only enough food so that everyone is able to eat at least two good meals per day. The orphans are free to do whatever they want with anything else they…pick up."

"Sounds like an interesting life," Jerrod had to admit.

"Moral arguments aside," Farrah continued to speak even as he climbed down the ladder to his basement, gesturing for the Cleric to follow, "the _real_ reason I've hidden away out here is because of the boy. The one from the Prophecy—I'm assuming Saradomin's already told you about him."

"He has," Jerrod nodded.

"I'm the one who found him in the desert a decade ago. The boy had been an infant, then… I raised him as my own until Saradomin himself visited me in my dreams. The things the God of Light told me... I'm glad Saradomin sent _you_, of all people, to train him."

Jerrod followed the old Menaphite down the ladder, leaving the hatch open. Farrah, before explaining anything else to Jerrod, hurried into the dormitory, where the orphans had gone to sleep.

"Up! _Up!_ Everyone up!" the old man shouted, rousing Jafa, Lessa, and the dozen or so other children in the room. "Pack anything you can carry!"

The orphans grumbled and muttered under their breaths as they rolled out of the cots. "What's going on?" a bleary-eyed Jafa asked. "Is the Qarat going on another conscription run?"

"The Qarat is the least of our worries," Farrah replied. "The northern wall has been breached. Ullek has fallen; we have mere _minutes_ to get out of here before Zamorak's filth comes tearing through our midst!"

"The monsters are here? _In_ the city?" the sixteen-year-old orphan sounded shocked. No one had ever for a moment thought that Ullek would actually fall… Now that it was happening, the only reaction was pure shock.

"Unless you all want to get turned into cold-cuts for the werewolves, I would suggest you get a move on," Jerrod kindly recommended from the next room.

The orphans sprang into action, gathering any of their possessions into their bags and sacks. Jerrod tapped his foot impatiently as they packed everything up. While they did this, Farrah came back out into the main room. He spoke quietly with Jafa for a minute, then returned to Jerrod, leaving the orphans in the hands of the older teenagers.

"Where is he?" the Cleric asked, his patience starting to wear thin. "Where is the boy from the Prophecy?"

"In here," Farrah pushed open the door to the other outlying room, which turned out to be some sort of kitchen. Jerrod stepped into the kitchen, trying to ignore the unmistakable howls of nearing werewolves.

In the corner of the kitchen was another makeshift cot. A boy was lying on it, unmoving. Jerrod stepped closer to get a good look at the child. He couldn't have been any older than eleven years old. His skin was ghostly pale. He was wearing ragged shorts and a torn, unbuttoned black cloth vest. A bandage was wrapped around his chest, which was just barely moving. Jerrod also noticed that there were iron bands clamped around the boy's wrists. Those were shackles…but the chain that held them together had been severed and disposed of, somehow.

Jerrod gave an imperceptible nod. This was definitely the boy he had seen in his vision, the one Saradomin had sent him here to recover. The boy who he was supposed to train before Zamorak burned the rest of the world. "What's his name?" Jerrod asked.

"Avinius."

"What's wrong with him?" Jerrod queried his old friend, scrutinizing the bandages.

"He was shot in the chest with an arrow," Farrah replied, pulling the covers back and giving Jerrod a nod. "I fixed up his lung and arteries, but the rest still needs to heal. Be semi-gentle with him, alright?"

"Right," Jerrod said. He slid his arms under the unconscious boy's back and lifted him up, slinging him over his shoulder. The Cleric regained his balance, then followed Farrah back out the door. "Mind telling me how a kid like this gets shot with an arrow?"

"He was conscripted by the Qarat two days ago," Farrah said, heading out of the kitchen and into the main room. The orphans were already gone. They had ducked into the passage that Farrah had built that led straight into the Ullek sewer system. It had been concealed behind a bookcase, which had been pushed aside, revealing the hole in the wall.

Even as he walked towards the secret exit, Farrah kept talking. "I have no idea what happened since then, but earlier today my two oldest orphans were out in the alleys, and they said he just came out of nowhere, limping down the street with an arrow in his chest… I'm sure you would find out more if you asked him yourself, when he wakes."

Farrah reached his passageway and hesitated, almost unwilling to abandon his homestead. "I…I suppose this is goodbye, old friend," the old Menaphite said.

"I suppose it is," Jerrod agreed. "Odds are we shall never see each other again."

"Mm…" Farrah hummed in agreement. He stood silent for a second, then reached into one of his robe pockets. "Here," the old Menaphite took out his prized Badb pipe, holding it out to Jerrod. "Take it. You'll need it more than me in the coming days."

"No…no, I can't take that from you," Jerrod held up his hands, but the Cleric already knew it was no use. If Farrah wanted to give him the pipe, then he was definitely getting the pipe. The old Menaphite never took 'no' for an answer.

"Please, Jerrod. Take it. For an old friend, if that makes you feel any better."

"Very well…" the Cleric accepted the pipe, slipping it into the folds of his black cloak.

"The pipeweed is enchanted," Farrah explained. "It regenerates after every use."

Jerrod extended a hand to Farrah. "Thank you," he said. "You've been a good friend to me, and I won't forget you."

Farrah pushed Jerrod's hand aside and pulled him into a tight embrace. He held it briefly, then released the Cleric, stepping back into the passageway. "He's a good boy, Jerrod," Farrah said, gesturing to Avis, who was still draped over Jerrod's shoulder. "Keep him alive for me."

With that, the old Menaphite turned on his heel and strode off into the darkness, sealing the tunnel behind him, leaving Jerrod alone in the basement.

"Looks like it's just you and me, boy," Jerrod murmured to the boy. He didn't get an answer. That was alright, though; he hadn't been expecting one.

The Cleric hurried across the room and climbed up the ladder into the antique shop above. He pushed his way through the shelves and glass, stepping out into the street, where he was promptly greeted with a well-aimed arrow heading right for his face.

Jerrod pounded the base of his staff into the ground. The orb flashed white and a strong gust of wind burst forth from around the Cleric, knocking the arrow aside before it came too close.

A goblin archer was hopping along the rooftops across the street. It had been the one who had fired at the Cleric. Meanwhile, a dozen or so werewolves were bounding down the street, heading right for the shop. When they spotted Jerrod, they all gave long, bloodcurdling howls. One of them broke off from the group and sprinted back, probably to notify its leaders.

Jerrod had to leave. Now.

The Cleric picked up an arrow from the ground, lay it on his arm, and closed his eyes, letting the elemental energy of Air flow through his arm. A small column of wind enveloped the arrow, causing it to spin on its central axis. It spun faster and faster, hovering over Jerrod's forearm. The Cleric opened his eyes and stared right at one of the goblin archers, which was nocking its bow for another shot.

Jerrod flexed his arm and released the magic. The arrow—which was now spinning so fast that it looked like a brown blur—leaped forward, jetting through the air and thucking right between the goblin's eyes. The creature didn't even have time to make a sound; it simply slid forward and fell off the roof.

This removed any ranged threats from the fight, buying Jerrod enough time to pick up the Menaphite rug which he had taken in Iunu and imbibed with an enlarged helping of life force, turning it into what most people knew as a 'magic carpet'.

Jerrod lay the rug down flat in the middle of the street, and then let the boy slide off of his shoulder and onto the carpet before standing his ground and turning to face the ten werewolves bounding towards him. He rolled his neck and shoulders, easing out the kinks, cracked his knuckles, and waited.

The moment the leading werewolf leaped, Jerrod struck. He stabbed his staff forward, and a jet of flame burst out of the orb, lancing right through the werewolf's open mouth and out the back of its head. The smell of burnt flesh permeated through the air and the creature thudded to the ground.

Jerrod then reinforced his stance and lowered his center of gravity. He used his hands in conjunction with his staff and invoked the element of Earth. He struck the street with his staff and kicked up a large chunk of stone, sending it crushing into a group of three werewolves. One managed to twist away, but the other two were instantly pulped. Jerrod concentrated on the street itself and gave a raw-throated roar.

He wasn't shouting just for the sake of shouting—it was a psychological technique. Earth Magic required the user to be stubborn and unyielding—just like the element itself. Yelling in such a manner helped the mage channel and release his energy. It was hard to explain in conventional terms…it just simply _worked_.

A band of the street started to bubble and melt. Jerrod had transmuted the stone into quicksand. The charging werewolves plowed right through it and were tripped up as a consequence. One was caught completely in the quicksand, slowly sinking below the surface. Air bubbles from their breath could be seen for a few seconds after it completely vanished.

Another werewolf which had managed to evade the quicksand leaped at the Cleric, but Jerrod sidestepped the attack and jabbed his staff up and under, striking the creature in its underbelly. The smell of burnt flesh grew even more pungent as the staff's orb flared crimson and the werewolf screamed in agony before slumping to the ground, its underbelly charred completely black. Father Jerrod had pretty much roasted all of its internal organs.

The Cleric finished off another pair of werewolves the same way he had killed the goblin archer—using wind to aim, spin, and fire a pair of fallen arrows, sending them thudding into their hearts.

The three remaining werewolves attacked at the same time. Jerrod did his best to defend himself, but he couldn't watch all parts of his body at the same time. One of the wolves managed to score a hit across Jerrod's left side.

The Cleric swore loudly, falling to one knee, clasping a hand to the bright red lacerations. He shattered the front paw of one of the attacking werewolves, driving the three creatures back a few paces. That was all the space Jerrod needed.

It was always easier for Jerrod to use magic while under extreme stress—it came as naturally to him as breathing or blinking at times like these. He took several deep, powerful breaths, fueling the burning elemental energy that was coursing through him via his staff.

He released the energy in one great heave, resulting in a searing-hot ring of flame that exploded out from around him. It was not a concentrated attack, more of an outburst of raw power. As such, the roaring flames did not last very long, nor did they kill any of the remaining werewolves. Instead, they singed all three of them, sending them yelping away down the street.

Jerrod broke off and hurried back over to the carpet. The boy was still lying where Jerrod had placed him. The Cleric sat cross-legged in the back of the rug, keeping the boy in front of him. Jerrod tapped into the artificial life force of the rug which he had created and began manipulating the winds via that energy.

The magic carpet jumped, rising twenty or thirty feet into the air. At Jerrod's behest, the carpet started drifting forward, eventually accelerating to a reasonable speed.

Jerrod soared over Ullek on the carpet, watching with retrained horror at the destruction taking place. Monsters were running rampant through the city streets, burning and tearing down everything they saw. Blood ran down the roads as freely as rivers and corpses—or fragments of them—littered the burning alleys.

Screams and cries of agony were painfully audible as people fled from the monsters, but were caught or cornered by the creatures. None were spared. In some places, Qarat soldiers tried to make a stand, but any resistance did not last longer than a full minute. Everyone had been absolutely slaughtered.

Jerrod also spotted hundreds of people fleeing into the sewers, following Farrah's example. The Cleric silently wished them all a safe journey, though in his heart he knew that not many would make it to Sophanem.

Jerrod swung the carpet around and headed south, gradually increasing his altitude to over a hundred feet. After a minute, he was over Ullek's southern wall and whizzing over the Qarat's battlements. He looked down, able to see hordes of death knights and werewolves breaking through the wooden defenses as the Qarat soldiers desperately tried—and failed—to fend them off. There were hundreds of savaged human corpses down there, bleeding in the sand. Penal battalions, no doubt.

The Cleric risked a glance back and instantly swore again. Ullek was wreathed in flames. Smoke billowed into the air in great columns. Had the sun not already been setting, it would have been blotted out. The sound of tens of thousands of monsters roaring and howling filled the sky.

But what made Jerrod swear were the seven winged vampyres flying out of the smoke in hot pursuit of him. Vyrewatch. They were much faster than the carpet, but Jerrod had a good amount of distance on them. He just hoped it was enough for him to get past the coast of the desert.

It wasn't; not quite. Jerrod had made it within spitting distance of the southern beaches when the vyrewatch caught up with him. The seven advanced vampyres surrounded him, leveling their black spears.

The Cleric stood up, balancing effortlessly on the carpet. He did not stop the carpet completely, though; he just kept it moving at an extremely slow rate…too slow for the vyrewatch to notice. He couldn't teleport out of the desert...but if he managed to cross over the coastline, he would no longer be _in_ the desert...

The lead vampyre sneered right in Jerrod's face, adjusting her grip on her spear. "You have something my masters want," she hissed, prodding the pale-skinned boy with her spear.

Jerrod promptly lashed out at the weapon. His staff flashed and the tip of the lead vyrewatch's spear was sliced off. The other vampyres all hissed and pressed their spears in closer.

"Give us the boy," the lead vyrewatch demanded, casting away her broken weapon.

"I've got a counterproposal for you," Jerrod said in reply, straightening himself up and calmly smoothing out a wrinkle in his cloak. "I'm giving you all a chance to turn back and forget you ever saw me. I'm being generous; I don't usually offer this to scum like you. And I certainly won't offer it twice."

"Human filth…" the lead vyrewatch spat. "You cannot possibly take on all of us. If you give us the boy without a struggle, maybe we shall spare you."

"Spare me…" Jerrod echoed. Suddenly the Cleric started laughing. "Yeah, right; your definition of 'spare me' would probably be to lock me in a cell so you can harvest my blood for the rest of my life. Thank you, but no. And you're right; I cannot defeat all seven of you. However…you are more intelligent than most of the vermin I kill on a daily basis. I know that none of you want to die. If you attack, however…some of you _will_ die. Which of you is willing to take that risk?"

As he spoke, the Cleric cast an inconspicuous glance over the edge of the carpet. He gave a faint grin when he saw that he had passed the coast and was now hovering over the water.

"Enough talk," the lead vyrewatch snapped. "Take him."

The other six vampyres thrust their spears forward, but a bright flash of light temporarily blinded them. When their eyes cleared, they found that their spears had stabbed through nothing but empty air. The Cleric and the boy were gone.

* * *

Even before Avis opened his eyes, he knew that he was no longer in the desert. The air was much too moist and the temperature too low for it to be any part of the Menaphite Desert.

The pale-skinned boy cracked open his eyes and sat up, tentatively looking around. He was in a dark room—no, a _hut_—that had all the accommodations of a normal house. One of the walls had a clay oven and a carved stone washbasin. There was a bed lining another wall. In the center of the hut was a simple, round table with two chairs.

Where was he? How had he gotten here?

Avis's mind flashed back to the last things he remembered before losing consciousness. The vivid image of a bloody arrow embedded in his chest suddenly sprang into his mind and he gasped, looking down at his chest.

When all he saw was a bandage, he let loose a sigh of relief. He remembered having been carried right before he lost consciousness...it must have been Jafa and Lessa, or someone else he knew—no one else went into that slum anymore. They would have taken him to Farrah…who seemed to have healed him. Avis recognized the bandages.

That still did not answer his question, though. Where the hell was he?

Avis swung his legs over the edge of the bed he had been lying in. He felt faint for a few seconds when he stood up, but quickly recovered his balance. He started to walk, taking small, questing steps.

He trudged across the small hut to the entrance, which was a thick door made of oak wood resting on wooden hinges. The door swung outward and Avis stumbled outside. He rubbed his eyes and took in his surroundings with equal parts shock and wonder.

He was in a swamp. Or rather, on an island _in_ the swamp. Lush plants and trees were everywhere, so thick that it was difficult to see the sky. When he looked off in the distance, he could see the lake in which the island was located stretching out to its banks, beyond which all he could see were trees.

Everything was so _green_. For someone who had spent his entire life in a dusty desert city…the sudden transition of environments was nearly mind-numbing. There were no buildings for him to climb up and run over, no kiosks for him to thieve from…

This hut seemed to be the one piece of civilization in the entire swamp. It was obviously the owner of that swamp who was responsible for his being here.

On the one end of the island was a well-tended garden…that was probably the main source of the hut-owner's food out here. Perhaps he also specialized in herbs.

Suddenly, Avis spotted movement on the other side of the lake. An older-looking man in a black traveler's cloak had appeared out of the underbrush. The boy quickly stole back across the islet and climbed up the nearest tree, hiding himself away in the leafy branches. The man didn't appear to have spotted him.

Avis's eyes widened as he watched the man step _onto_ the water. Wherever his feet touched the water, the surface froze over, turning into a path of ice. This man was a mage. As he drew near to the islet, Avis got a semi-good look at him. Short, dark-gray hair, closely-trimmed beard and mustache, stormy gray eyes…this was a powerful man. Avis could sense that somehow from just a single glance.

The man bore an armful of herbs. When he set foot on the island, the path of ice melted away, returning to the water from whence it came. The older man ducked into the hut, dropping the herbs off, and then came back outside. He shed his traveler's cloak, hanging it up by the door, revealing a simple brown tunic underneath.

The older man ran a hand over his short facial hair and sat down cross-legged at the edge of the island, where the earth turned briefly to sand before falling beneath the water. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He seemed so attuned to the environment around him…almost like he was a part of it.

He then surprised Avis by speaking. "I am not going to have a conversation with a boy who is up in a tree," the older man said. "You can stay up there all day and night, if you so desire… If it is answers you seek, however, I would suggest coming down and joining me."

Avis sensed no hostility in the man's voice…and besides, if the man had wanted to hurt him, he could have done so long ago. And Avis _did_ want answers, so he promptly slid down the trunk of the tree and walked over to where the man was meditating.

"Who are you?" Avis started blurting out. "Where have you-" Suddenly, Avis choked on his words. Though his mouth was moving, no sound was coming out, almost as if someone had just turned off his voice as simply as flipping a switch.

"I can see that respect is but one more thing you shall have to learn from me," the older man sighed, opening his eyes. He nodded over to the ground next to him. "Sit," he said. "And don't speak out of turn again unless you want me to take away your voice for the rest of the day."

Avis did as he was told and sat cross-legged next to the older man, semi-patiently waiting for his answers. He already had a feeling that this man would not reveal a thing until he was ready to. There would be no getting information out of him prematurely.

"Beautiful, is it not?" the older man asked the boy, gesturing to the swamp. "Unlike anything you've ever seen, no doubt. I prefer it over the desert anyday…but that is just personal opinion."

Avis found that he could speak again, but wisely decided to keep his mouth shut this time.

The man did not say anything for what must have been an hour. Avis had decided to play his game. He straightened up and closed his eyes as well. He was surprised to find that this swamp was as full of energy as Ullek had been. Even more so, actually, because of the sheer volume of natural flora and fauna. The Anima Mundi was simply everywhere…and in different textures. It was beautiful.

Avis had always pitied his friends in the orphan shelter run by Farrah. They had never been able to sense the Anima Mundi like him. Farrah had said that his ability to sense life energy in such a manner was a sign of being a mage.

"You know what patience is," the man said suddenly, shaking Avis out of his deep thought. "I suppose you're not a total loss…" the older man paused for a yawn, and then kicked out his feet, stretching the cramped muscles. He then lay back on the ground, saying, "I guess you'd like to know who I am, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Avis nodded.

"My name is Jerrod," the older man introduced himself. "I am a Cleric of the God Saradomin, and one of the most powerful mages you'll ever meet. That's all you need to know. Whenever you address me, however, you shall address me as 'master'. I am to be your teacher."

"What happened to me? How did I-"

"Farrah patched you up," Jerrod cut the boy off. "I arrived after you were wounded and got you out of the city before…" the older man hesitated, realizing that Avis did not know that Ullek was gone. "I…uh…I don't really know how to say this, kid, so I'm just gonna say it. Your home, Ullek; it's gone. The monsters broke through the northern wall and burned the whole place."

A lump rose in Avis's throat. The boy did not move, but Jerrod noted the subtle hunching of the shoulders, hardening of the jaw, and clenching of the fists. The boy was deeply disturbed by this turn of events.

The Cleric sighed inwardly, but he knew it was better the boy found out everything _now_ rather than a few months later when he needed to concentrate the most. "Those monsters were in the service of Zamorak. They were looking for you, and you have seen what they're capable of."

The boy did not answer, but Jerrod knew he had to be listening.

"They've ravaged over half of the Menaphite Empire in the name of the Dark God. Do you want more cities and more people to suffer the same fate? Getting butchered because a false God wants more power?"

Slowly, Avis shook his head. Hard as he tried to stop it, a single tear ran down his cheek. He knew in his heart that Farrah and the others were safe…but Ullek had been his home. It had been the only place he had ever known or loved…and now he was being told that it was nothing more than a cinder.

"You have the makings of a great mage, boy," Jerrod said to Avis. "You have a powerful inner energy…an energy the likes of which I've never seen in a Human before. By order of the God Saradomin, I am going to train you in the four elements…and you will become an even stronger mage than me. You have a great destiny ahead of you, boy…"

"So I've heard…" Avis murmured.

Jerrod stood up and walked back over to his hut, ducking inside once again. When he came back out, he carried two long, thick sticks of wood. He tossed one at the feet of Avis. "I do not know how long your training shall take. It will take several years for me to introduce you to all the elements. I can train you in Air and Water here…for Earth we must travel northwest to the Avarrockan Hills, and for Fire we must travel to the Northern Menaphite Empire. For now, though…we remain in the swamp."

Avis picked up the wooden stick, swinging it up and around experimentally, getting a feel for its weight. "When do we start training?"

Jerrod smiled wolfishly. "Right now," he said. Then he struck.


	18. Chapter 18: Forced Diplomacy

Chapter Eighteen: Forced Diplomacy

Warmaster Athellenas breathed a sigh of relief as the cluster of tents came into view over the next dune. There were a few dozen of them situated in a tight semi-circle right next to a medium-sized lake of crystal-blue water. The oasis was certainly out of tune with its surroundings—green grass and palm trees lined its banks, contrasting sharply with the bleak whites and yellows of the afternoon desert.

This was a Bedabin Oasis. The Bedabins were a nomadic people who freely roamed the desert. Unlike the Menaphites, they had no cities. They were a tribal people, divided into five main tribes. For generations, the Bedabin tribes had been engaging in light warfare with each other, fighting over water sources like this one.

Unless he was mistaken, Athellenas believed that this particular oasis was being held by members of the Arimei tribe. If he was lucky, the tribal chief would be in town. If not…well, Athellenas did not need the tribal chief's help. He only needed a guide. But because of this oasis's importance to the Arimei tribe, it was highly likely that the tribe's chieftain was present.

"Looks like we're here," Paladin Anesti murmured. The Paladin had surprised the Warmaster by volunteering to accompany him to the somewhat nearby oasis, along with a small group of twenty of Sir Havarell's cavalry.

It had been three days since the Centralian Army's failed attempt to break through Shantay Pass. Athellenas had spent that time giving his men a good rest. They needed one after the disaster at the Shantay Wall.

Athellenas then left Sir Derren in charge of the Army and rode off with his small contingent of escorts, heading to the nearest Bedabin Oasis. He was fairly certain that he had a backup plan that would work, but he needed the assistance of the Bedabins. And there was always the chance that he could be completely wrong.

There were around a hundred or so people visible at the edge of the lake, either gathering water, fishing, or simply cooling themselves off. Most were dressed in cream-colored desert robes.

Five of the men drew scimitars from their robes and approached the Centralians as Athellenas galloped through the tents and into the center of the camp. "State your business, outsider," the leader demanded in heavily accented Commonspeak.

Athellenas introduced himself, once again using his formal titles. "I am Athellenas of the Far Reaches, son of Thorvald, Warmaster of the King's soldiers and armies. I must speak with your leader."

"What you must do is _leave,_ infidel," the nomad said, raising his scimitar. "Your kind is forbidden here."

Athellenas gave a sharp whistle. The five cavalry archers who had accompanied him raised their bows, aiming them straight at the five nomads as they displayed their weapons.

More nomad men emerged from the tents, drawing their weapons as they saw the Centralian outsiders.

Athellenas drew his sword, leveling it at the lead nomad. "I would strongly recommend you cooperate with me," the Warmaster said, his voice lowering to a threatening whisper. "Fighting me would be a hefty mistake for you."

The nomad hesitated, eyeing the Warmaster up. Though Athellenas certainly did not look like a young man anymore, he still looked deadly capable with his sword. That, and the fact that he and all of his men were on horses—giving them the advantage of a higher striking height—and the fact that all the Centralians were wearing armor, as opposed to the desert nomads' simple robes, were enough to dissuade the man from any further aggression.

"Follow me," the nomad said finally, turning on his heel and walking across the center of the encampment.

"Well, this isn't exactly going as planned," Paladin Anesti commented as the Centralians spurred their horses after the Arimei tribesman. "How do you propose we solicit their assistance after an introduction like this?"

"Simple," Athellenas grunted. "If they don't cooperate, we threaten them. If they _still_ don't cooperate, then we make them bleed."

* * *

The inside of the tribal chief's tent was not extravagant, but it was slightly more opulent than the rest of the dwellings in the oasis. There was a dining space at the center of the tent, which was a thin circle of polished wood surrounded by pillows that were made to be sat on.

The tribal chief of the Arimei sat at a small desk in the back of the tent, reading a papyrus scroll. He looked up to see the source f his disturbance. When he saw that his visitors were not only outsiders, but Centralians, he nearly burst a vein.

The tribal chief shouted several words of Arrish at the nomad who had brought Athellenas inside. The nomad offered a weak protest, but quickly bowed his head and ducked outside.

The tribal chief muttered in Arrish under his breath, but looked up at Athellenas and Anesti and said, "Why do you defile my people's land with your presence, _khanzeer?_"

Athellenas knew very little Arrish, but he had a feeling that 'khanzeer' meant _pig_. The context of how the man was speaking and the expression on his face certainly backed up that hypothesis.

"I certainly do not defile it to be insulted before I explain myself, your Eminence," Athellenas replied curtly. "Have you got anything to drink? The ride has been long, and I am thirsty."

"Sit," the tribal chief pointed at the pillows surrounding the dining space. He picked up a pitcher of water from his desk and poured some of the liquid into two wooden cups. After offering them to Athellenas and Anesti, the tribal chief sat down opposite the two Centralians. Athellenas could see how tempted the man had been to spit in the cup, but thankfully he hadn't. That would have been very unpleasant.

Athellenas took a long drink from the cup, and then set it down in front of him. "Good water…good water…" the Warmaster murmured, taking a deep breath and relaxing. Now that his thirst was quenched, the Warmaster looked up at the tribal chief and began to speak. "I have come here because I need your help."

The tribal chief blinked twice, and then burst out laughing. The brown-bearded fellow had a good pair of lungs; his laughter nearly shook the tent walls. "You animals, you _infidels_ defile my lands, threaten my people, disrespect my home…and now you have the gall to ask for my _help?_"

Anesti's lip curled when the desert tribesman called him an infidel, but the Paladin thankfully did not retaliate.

Athellenas joined the tribal chief, his booming laughter mixing with the chieftain's higher tones. "Yes…" the Warmaster said in between chuckles. "Yes, that _does_ sound rather far-fetched, does it not?"

The tribal chief's laughter died. It didn't seem so funny to him when the man he was insulting was laughing as well. "What makes you think I will help you?"

"Zamorak's hordes are sweeping through the entire Menaphite Empire, under the command of the elder-demon Thammaron," Athellenas explained, getting down to business. "We must stop Thammaron's army…but to do that we have to get past the Shantay Wall. That is where I need you—I know for a fact that your people know ways through the mountains that can bypass Shantay Pass. I need a guide to lead some of my men through these routes."

The tribal chief was silent. He calmly made a hocking sound at the back of his throat, leaned over, and spat into the sand. "Get out," he said. "Get out of my tent, get out of my encampment, and never return. If you come back, you shall be treated as an enemy."

Athellenas sighed. "Your Eminence, let us not be hasty in our decisions. If Thammaron's hordes are not stopped, then your people will suffer for it. They will completely obliterate this desert, and you along with it. Unless we can stop them…and to do that, I need your assistance."

The tribal chief sprang to his feet, walked back to his desk, and picked up an ornate scimitar made of mithril alloy, pointing it at the Warmaster. "What happens to the Menaphites or to your filthy people is of no concern to me. I will not tell you to get out again," the desert tribesman warned. "Leave this place, infidel."

Athellenas did not react in any way to the weapon pointed right at him. Instead, he calmly picked up his cup and drank the rest of the water, setting it down on the wood in front of him. He looked over at Anesti and asked, "Have you had enough to drink?"

The Paladin raised an eyebrow at the Warmaster, but nodded. "I am quite satisfied, thank you."

"Good," the Warmaster nodded, turning back to the tribal chief. "Have a seat, your Eminence."

"_Guards!_" the tribal chief barked. Three scimitar-wielding men pushed the entrance flap aside and marched in, advancing on the two Centralians.

Anesti leaped to his feet and spun around. He made a low, throaty growling noise and swiped his hand across the space where the three guards were standing. A sudden, strong wind punched right through the tent wall, ripping the guards' weapons from their grasps. The Paladin then invoked the element of Earth and knocked each of the guards unconscious by sending small pebbles of concentrated sand thudding into their foreheads.

"How _dare_ you-"

"Sit _down_, your Eminence!" Athellenas snapped, all pretense of courtesy now gone. The tribal chief grudgingly did as the Warmaster commanded, sitting back down onto his pillow.

"I will see you beheaded for these offenses," the tribesman threatened under his breath.

"Well, until you can back that threat up, I would suggest you listen to me," Athellenas said, leaning in close. "If Thammaron's armies destroy this desert, then Centralia—my homeland—is next. This is unacceptable. I had hoped that you could look past your ethnic and cultural prejudices to see reason, but I can already see that you cannot. Therefore, I will make this simple for you. I need a guide to lead my men past the Shantay Wall."

"And if I refuse?" the tribal chief asked.

Athellenas smiled, but it was not a happy smile. It was a cold smile, one that did not reach his eyes. "If you refuse, then I shall thank you for your time and leave you in peace. Then, tomorrow I shall return here with four thousand soldiers and I will destroy this oasis. How long will your tribe survive, I wonder, without your main source of water?"

The tribal chief's eyes widened. "You…you wouldn't dare-" the man spluttered.

"It is not up to me, your Eminence, it is up to _you,_" Athellenas interrupted, rising to his feet. "You can avoid having your home destroyed…all you have to do is cooperate with me. Do not think that I need _you_ in particular…if you still refuse to cooperate, I shall simply find another tribe that will. My homeland's safety lies in the balance of this fight…do not think for a moment that I will not spill blood to keep it safe. Even your blood, if need be."

The tribal chief's gaze darted this way and that as he sought to find another way, something to dissuade the Warmaster with. His mind came up blank. Bedabin warriors were certainly not incapable in a fight…but they would not be able to stand up to a legion of Centralian regulars. There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity.

The tribal chief's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Damn you…" he growled.

Athellenas gave a light, apathetic grin. "Many have," the Warmaster chuckled. "Now…the guide?"

"Take Salameh," the tribal chief muttered. "He is the one who escorted you in."

"Good choice," Athellenas dusted himself off and got ready to leave. "Your tribe gets to survive another year, and my army will now be able to strike directly at Thammaron himself. I humbly thank you for your kindness," the Warmaster gave the tribal chief a polite bow.

"Just take Salameh and go. Leave us in peace," the tribal chief muttered.

"Salameh will be sent back once he has shown my men the way through the mountains. Until then…have a good and prosperous life," Athellenas turned on his heel and marched right out of the tent.

"Utter barbarians, the lot of them," Anesti muttered as he accompanied the Warmaster outside. For once, Athellenas could not help agreeing with the Paladin. He had hoped the Bedabins could set aside their notorious dislike of outsiders to serve a greater purpose…but he had been wrong. Therefore, he had to resort to diplomacy at the point of the lance.

The Warmaster took back his runite sword from the guard who had confiscated it at the entrance to the tribal chief's tent.

Athellenas had not been bluffing. Had the tribal chief continued to resist and insult him, the Warmaster would have returned to his camp, mustered the IV Legion, and returned to the oasis with General Sinclair. The sight of four thousand soldiers heading right for his precious water probably would have loosened the tribal chief's resolve.

Luckily, that unpleasant business had just been avoided.

Salameh, the nomad who had 'greeted' Athellenas when the Warmaster had first arrived in the camp, protested when Athellenas informed him of the tribal chief's decision. The younger nomad had ducked into the chief's tent for a few minutes. Athellenas could hear them speaking in Arrish, talking in raised tones.

Finally, the tent flap was brushed aside and Salameh emerged. He gave a sharp whistle and an Ugthanki camel trotted over. The desert nomad pulled himself up onto the camel's back and spurred it forward. "I will go with you," the Arimei tribesman said grudgingly.

"Excellent!" Athellenas beamed. "You will be paid for your service…but be warned. If you try to hinder, mislead, or attack my men in any way, it is your home that shall suffer the consequences. Understood?"

"Completely," Salameh nodded.

"Then there isn't a moment to lose. Let us go."

With that, Athellenas spurred Onyx in the sides, galloping off with the rest of his contingent back towards Shantay Pass. There was another attack coming up…and this time, the Centralian Army was going to wipe those monsters out. Athellenas made this his next promise.

The Warmaster looked down at his breastplate absent-mindedly as he rode. The small spiritweed flower was still poking out of the small indent in the armor over his heart. It had been given to him by a little girl in Port Sarim, and he had never removed it. Spiritweed flowers were very rare and were supposed to bring good luck.

Athellenas hoped it worked for tomorrow. His men were going to need all the luck they could get.


	19. Chapter 19: Return Engagement

Chapter Nineteen: Return Engagement

Sir Derren didn't know what to think of the young Bedamin nomad who was leading him and the contingent of Centralian soldiers through the hidden camel paths that ran through the mountains that divided the Mneaphite Empire in half.

The second-in-command of the 1st Element flicked his gaze up towards the eastern horizon as he stepped over a large crevice in the stone path. The horizon was brightening as the sun, hidden away somewhere on the other side of Gielinor, prepared to make its daily trek through the skies. It wasn't bright yet—there was only a faint glimmer of dark blue that was just bright enough to stand out from the rest of the black sky.

Dawn was approaching, which meant that Athellenas probably had the legions up and moving at this moment. Sir Derren and his strike team would have to hurry it up.

Athellenas had set Sir Derren aside and given him direct command of small, mixed force of roughly fifty or so swordsmen and archers from the IV Legion—about half the size of a normal company. Accompanying him were Sir Orestes, the centurion who was second-in-command of the IV Legion—Athellenas would not send in General Sinclair—and ten of Sir Brezhnov's artillerists. These men were explosives specialists—the men who created the exploding projectiles fired by the gunnery cannons.

These men were integral to the Warmaster's plan. None of them were armed—that was because each of them carried a high-explosive cannon shell on their backs, as well as necessary materials to set them off. The engineers' faces were slick with sweat from the exertion of lugging the heavy shells up through the Bedabin camel paths. It was good that they were doing this before dawn—carrying those shells in the burning afternoon sun probably would have killed them.

"How much further, Salameh?" Sir Derren whispered to the Bedabin nomad who was guiding them.

"No very far, no very far," the desert tribesman replied in broken Commonspeak. "Around next bend."

The Centralians moved in a single-file line—the camel path was too narrow to allow larger formations. The soldiers were easing out their nervous ticks as they moved closer to their destination—swordsmen sharpened or polished their blades, archers tightened and adjusted their bowstrings; everyone had his own way of ignoring the stress.

Sir Derren knew that they had already passed the Shantay Wall, based on the amount of time they had been moving, as well as their pace. Stealth was going to be more key than strength. The longer Sir Derren's contingent could go without being detected, the better. Fifty soldiers weren't going to last long against fourteen thousand monsters if they were discovered too soon. Especially if Fel-Ungrroth, the five-tailed demon, heard them.

Eventually, the strike force came across an even smaller path that ran off from the main route, winding down the slope of the mountain towards the valley below. It was a spot where the sheer cliffs were temporarily broken by an earthen slope…probably an old landslide.

"This is it?" Sir Derren inquired.

Salameh nodded. "You go down path, you behind Shantay Wall."

Sir Derren nodded, satisfied. "You've done a good job, here. You may return to your home, if you wish. However, if we win this battle, the Warmaster will reward you for your services. You can return home or to our camp. The choice is yours. Either way, you need not accompany us any further."

The nomad bowed his head, murmuring something in Arrish, and stole away into the shadows. Within seconds, he was gone.

"Move out," Sir Orestes whispered to his men. Sir Derren led the way, silently sliding down the winding path. It took over half an hour for all fifty-odd men to navigate the treacherous trail. It switchbacked a lot, preventing it from getting too steep, but it was still perilously easy to lose one's footing and fall off the side.

The trail never made it all the way down to the bottom of the valley—it just gradually grew more and more rocky and steep until it just plain vanished. The strike team was forced to slide down the rest of the way. This was especially hard for the engineers, but they managed. Sir Derren's respect for Sir Brezhnov's men was increasing by the minute.

Suddenly, there was a snuffling sound, accompanied by tumbling gravel. Something else had been on the hill. Sir Derren spotted two glowing yellow eyes in the darkness and instantly recognized them as eyes of a werewolf. He had seen the same sight over and over when fighting in Iunu.

"Martland!" Sir Derren whisper-shouted to the best archer in the contingent, gesturing at the nearby werewolf. "Before it can alert the horde!"

Martland, an older, red-haired gentlemen from the forests of the Far Reaches in the West, was already nocking an arrow to his longbow. He raised his weapon, took a breath, and released the string with a resounding _twang_. The arrow hissed as it rushed through the night. There was a dull _thud,_ accompanied by a distinctly canine yelp of pain…and then the thud of a corpse hitting the ground.

Scratch one werewolf.

Sir Derren allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "Good shot," the young knight said to the veteran archer.

"Sir," Martland nodded.

Sir Derren got the men moving again. He could not help but wince every time an armor plate clanked, or a man grunted, or a boot crunched on stone rather than sand. He hugged the cliff of the mountain which Salameh had just led them through, doubling back in the direction of the Shantay Wall. The other cliff face was three or so kilometers distant…and the space in between the two sides was filled with the horde under Fel-Ungrroth. Thousands and thousands of monsters, either sleeping or sitting idle.

Sir Derren closed his eyes and uttered a quick prayer to Saradomin for the safety of his men. If they were discovered _now_…the plan wouldn't work, they would all die, and Athellenas would never break through the Wall. Thammaron would continue to burn the Menaphite Empire unchecked.

There had been reports of unrest growing in the Hallowlands in the east, the homeland of the Iceyene. Athellenas had not elaborated on the reports, nor had Sir Derren pressed him. However, the seed had been planted. Zamorak's influence was reaching to other places besides this accursed desert.

First the Menaphite Empire, now possibly the Hallowlands and the regions lying to their immediate north…Centralia would soon find itself very much alone if this dark tide was not turned back.

"_Patrol!_" Sir Orestes whisper-shouted suddenly. "_Get down!_"

Sir Derren cursed himself for his lapse in concentration as the members of the strike force all hunkered down behind the boulders that lined the bottom of the cliff face. A small force of ten or so death knights tromped by, heading for the wall to bolster the forces there. Or maybe they were just relieving another force, in which case Sir Derren would have to watch for another force of returning monsters.

Once the death knights had passed out of earshot, Sir Orestes got everyone up and moving again. The artillerists muttered a few choice oaths under their breath as they shouldered the burdens of the high-explosive cannon shells while the surrounding soldiers lent a hand to keep them from losing their balance.

Sir Derren led the way, moving through the rapidly-dwindling night towards the Wall. The looming outlines of the great structure were clearly visible against the dark sky, as well as the small figures that were visibly moving around the ramparts.

Warmaster Athellenas hadn't been too worried about the monsters manning the Wall. They would be too focused on watching the 1st Element—the last thing they would be doing was watching the base of the wall _behind_ them.

Sir Derren picked up the pace as he went. Athellenas's legions were bound to be close. They would remain undetected until Sir Derren successfully opened the gate—Paladin Anesti was coordinating with the dozens of mages serving in the 1st Element to throw up a large-scale cloaking spell which would shield the legions from the eyes of the monsters manning the Shantay Wall's ramparts.

That was not the reason why Sir Derren was anxious to get a move on. He wanted to move faster simply because if they took too much longer, the sun would rise, and if that gate wasn't open yet, they were all dead men. The only reason they were undetected now was because of the cover of darkness. Once the sun rose...that darkness was gone.

Although Sir Derren's concerns were legitimate ones, they were unfounded. The strike team reached the Shantay Wall before the eastern horizon even began to turn red. It was still just a lightish blue. The strike team still had time.

Five death knights and twenty werewolves were at the gate. The werewolves were all asleep, snuffling and growling softly as they chased down prey in their dreams. The death knights never slept, however; they stood across the gate in a straight, unyielding line, somewhat vigilant of the area to their front.

And yet, even these death knights, Sir Derren could tell, were far from expecting an attack from behind the Shantay Wall. They had been ordered to guard the gate, and they performed this task tirelessly, but they did not guard it with any sort of zeal.

Sir Derren cursed quietly, anyhow. He hadn't been expecting any company at the gate. The young knight let out a sigh and rolled his shoulders in a resigned shrug. They would simply just have to deal with those monsters.

The catch was _how_ they would go about killing those monsters. They couldn't just charge in there and slaughter them—that would wake the werewolves. If just _one_ of those werewolves howled and alerted the nearby forces of Fel-Ungrroth's horde, the strike team was dead. It would be impossible to silence all twenty werewolves before at least one of them alerted its comrades.

They couldn't just sneak up on them, either, with the death knights keeping a watch. Killing the death knights at range would rouse the werewolves…killing the werewolves at range would alert the death knights… And trying to kill the death knights in close quarters combat was suicide for most men.

This was going to have to be highly coordinated.

"_Orestes,_" Sir Derren slid over to the senior centurion of the IV Legion. "Take the swordsmen. Assign each man to a werewolf—double up if you have to. Once I give the signal, you'll have to take out all those werewolves at the same time, _before_ they wake up."

Sir Orestes pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering the plan. "What's the signal, if I may ask?"

Sir Derren smiled. "The signal will be those death knights dying."

While Sir Orestes organized the score of swordsmen, Sir Derren gathered all of the archers, moving them out and around the front of the gate. They all hunkered down, flattening themselves behind the various boulders that were strewn about the area. There were twenty-two archers in the strike team, all of them handpicked by General Sinclair. Sir Derren and Martland divided the archers into three groups of four and two groups of five.

"I want each group to set your aim at one of the death knights," Sir Derren ordered. "On my command, you will open fire. We will take all five of those bastards down at the same time."

"Aim for the neck…" Martland advised as the archers as they silently nocked their bows. "It is the one weak point on their armor that rewards you with a kill if it is hit."

Sir Derren had no illusions that every archer was going to hit their target. The idea was that at least _one_ man in each group would be able to take down their assigned death knight. Powerful fighters as death knights were, a well-placed arrow felled them as easily as a normal human.

The ten engineers hung back with the archers as well, lying in the sand, clutching their cannon shells. They didn't make a sound.

Sir Derren issued the appropriate commands, hoping that Sir Orestes was ready. He had given the senior centurion ample time, though…so that was that. "_Take aim_…_draw_…" Sir Derren took a deep breath and moved to wipe the sweat off his brow before remembering that his forehead was covered by his full helmet. He let his hand fall back to his side and gave the final command. "_Fire_."

The _twang_ of a bowstring sending its arrow forward rang out as the archers released. The hissing of arrows filled the night, followed quickly by the clanking of the arrows hitting the armor of the death knights.

To Sir Derren's dismay, only three of the death knights fell. Another was wounded, and the fifth got off scot-free.

Martland uttered a harsh curse under his breath and quickly nocked another arrow in a single quick, smooth movement. He loosed the arrow, which thudded right into the unharmed death knight's visor slit. The creature gave a low hiss and crumpled to the ground. The dead death knights' corpses gave off a faint dark mist before their armor violently imploded into tiny balls of crumpled metal.

The early morning was suddenly filled with the sound of the swordsmen plunging their blades into all of the werewolves at the same time. It was a hard sound to describe—the sound of metal sliding through flesh and bone—but Sir Derren knew it well. Some of the werewolves were able to yelp in surprise, but that was it. They were efficiently dispatched.

The lone death knight twirled its blade and plunged it into the side of one of the Centralian swordsman. The man howled in agony and sank to his knees. The death knight recovered from its first blow and raised its sword, preparing to cleave the man from shoulder to waist.

It didn't get far. Sir Orestes swooped in next to the death knight, bringing his own blade slicing down into the crease between the death knight's arm armor and its gauntlet. The creature did not make a sound as the cold steel lopped its weapon hand right off. The sword thudded into the sand, along with the armored hand that was still grasping it.

The death knight hissed and brought its other hand around, backhanding Sir Orestes across the face, sending the senior centurion of the IV Legion flying. The death knight then quickly cut its losses and fled. Its mission had been to guard the gate and—failing that—to alert the rest of the horde of any attacks on it.

Sir Derren's strike team qualified as an attack.

The young knight didn't even bother sending anyone after the death knight; it was too late to stop it. While several of the soldiers pulled their heavily wounded comrade away from the carnage, Sir Derren motioned Sir Brezhnov's engineers forward.

The ten men gratefully obeyed; glad to finally be rid of their burdens. Each man hurried up to the gate, stepping over the strewn bodies of the werewolves, and planted their explosive cannon shell at the base of the massive wooden structure. Once all ten shells had been planted, the engineers then set about fitting them with lengths of fuse cord. The reasoning was that they would light one large fuse cord, which split into ten smaller strands. All it took was for one strand to ignite one of the shells—the detonation of one shell would trigger the detonation of all the others.

As they set about completing this task, a sudden alarm rose up further on down the Pass in the form of a loud horn blast. Several other, more distant horn blasts took up the call and relayed it. The message was clear: _intruders_.

Shouts and roars rose up from the enemy encampments. Deeper into the horde's camp, a dull red light appeared, silhouetting a dark, wavering shape which was roaring and gesturing for the monsters to get up and move. Sir Derren's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the shape of the five-tailed demon.

Fel-Ungrroth was on its way. They had to hurry the hell up.

"Explosives are set!" one of the artillerists screamed as one of his compatriots struck a flint and lit the fuse, which instantly burst aflame, sparking and popping as the fire ate its way towards the cannon shells.

The engineers leapt to their feet and ran like crazy away from the gate. "Get clear! Get clear!" they were shouting.

Everyone backed up a couple dozen paces, and rightly so. Even though Sir Derren was a fair distance away from the gate, his eyebrows were still singed by the intense heat of the ensuing explosion.

The fuses burned all the way and ignited the ten shells. The combined blast made everyone's ears ring, and anyone who watched the initial conflagration was completely blinded for a few seconds.

A roaring geyser of flame shot up into the sky as the gate was obliterated. The shells did their job a lot better than Sir Brezhnov thought they would, else he would have sent less than ten to do the job. Not only was the gate blown to pieces, the wall above it was also completely pulverized by the force of the explosion. Blackened chunks of the white stone went flying in every direction. Monsters on the wall screamed as they were consumed by the flames or pulped by the flying debris.

Another horn blast rang out, but it was different than the one from the horde's encampment. This horn blast was higher-pitched and more refined than the raw gout of sound from the monsters.

Sir Derren barely had time to clear everyone away from the ragged chasm in the Shantay Wall before rank upon rank of Centralian cavalry thundered through the breach. Sir Haverell was at the head of the mass of cavalry, his green-tinged armor reflecting the torchlight of his men like a chandelier.

As if it were timed, the first streaks of sunlight shot through the sky as the cavalry thundered through. Men drew their swords, hoarse battle-cries rising into the sky for Saradomin himself to hear.

Athellenas's forces had gotten closer to the wall than Sir Derren had expected. He was by no means complaining, though. Had it taken longer for the cavalry to get through, the forerunners of the rousing horde probably would have made it to his position.

After a minute, the entire force of the 1st Element's cavalry was through the wall, and the infantry started to march through in formation. First to emerge were the stone-faced troopers bearing the red hawk standard of the X Legion, led by General Airoh.

At the head of the infantry advance was a familiar gray-bearded figure in rusty red armor, riding a dappled gray and white battlehorse. The Warmaster turned his head and caught sight of Sir Derren. He raised his hand in greeting. Sir Derren then noticed that Athellenas had his own horse—Kicker—on a lead.

Sir Derren hurried over to his superior, taking Kicker off his hands. "Thank you," the young knight clasped his right fist to his heart in a salute.

"No, Derren. Thank _you,_" Athellenas corrected his subordinate. "You did a commendable job here. If we manage to stop Thammaron at Uzer…it will all be thanks to you. We never would have made it past this place if not for the risk you and those men took."

"One of the men was stabbed by a death knight during the raid on the gate," Sir Derren quickly explained, taking the reins of his horse. "Make sure the medics take care of him."

Athellenas nodded. "One of the I Legion's mages is healing him as we speak. Oh, and keep your distance from me," the Warmaster advised. "There is something I am going to have to do…"

* * *

The sudden onslaught of the Centralian cavalry caught the organizing horde off guard. They had never fought the 1st Element's cavalry yet—Athellenas had only sent the three legions of infantry in during the first battle four days ago. This was a new experience for them.

The fact that half the monsters were still waking up and the other half was still groggy and uncoordinated didn't help them either. There was still plenty of resistance, especially from the monsters that did not sleep, like death knights or undead. The 1st Element took losses…but nothing nearly as bad as the losses sustained by the legions four days ago.

This time, it was the Centralians who rushed into battle with the ferocious zeal of warriors who knew they were going to dominate.

Athellenas rode detached from the bloodbath. Onyx was moving forward at a light canter, heading straight towards the only other thing on the impromptu battlefield that was paying no heed to the carnage around it.

Fel-Ungrroth, the five-tailed demon, drew its lips back in a hideous grin, displaying rows upon rows of sickly yellow incisors. It wielded no weapon, though it was known to use its tails in combat.

Athellenas, unwilling to put Onyx in any further danger, swung himself out of the saddle and sent the horse on its way, getting it away from the oncoming demon. The Warmaster drew his runite blade and leveled it at the five-tailed demon. He let out a raw-throated battle-cry and charged the greater demon.

Fel-Ungrroth closed the distance between itself and the Centralian Warmaster with three great strides, swinging its claws at the Warmaster's neck.

Athellenas ducked and launched himself forward into a roll, swiping at one of the demon's ankles with his blade as he went.

Fel-Ungrroth hissed with discomfort as the runite cut through its flesh, but was otherwise unaffected. It brought its tailes hissing through the air, striking Athellenas in three different places.

The Warmaster was too slow to dodge all of the hits. He grunted in pain as he felt two of his ribs crack and his left upper-arm fracture. He held his blade in a one-handed grip, now, desperately trying to fend off the five lashing tails. For a few seconds, he was somewhat successful. He was able to dodge the tails, but he was unable to hit any of them until the demon got careless and tried to take off Athellenas's head with two tails at once.

Athellenas sidestepped the swipes, ducking as a third tail followed up on the cut, and flicked his blade through the air. The runite seemed to scream as it cleaved through one of the demon's tails.

Fel-Ungrroth roared as it lost part of itself to the human who had dared to challenge it in single combat. It was now only vaguely aware of the surrounding humans that were slaughtering all of its minions—it had eyes only for the red-armored one. The one who must now die.

Athellenas didn't even have time to appreciate the fact that the plan he had hatched with Paladin Anesti and Sir Brezhnov was coming to fruition. The demon's attention was now solely on him. It was hell-bent on spilling his blood...and its blind rage would cause it to make mistakes. The demon's four remaining tails lashed out for him at the same time as the demon leaned forward and took a swipe with its claws again.

Athellenas knocked two tails aside as well as the demon's hand. The runite screeched and gave off a shower of sparks as it grated against the demon's claws. Athellenas was not able to dodge the last two tails, though. One hit him square in the chest, breaking another rib and causing his breastplate to dent inward painfully in a way that restricted his breathing. The other tail caught him behind one knee, sending him crashing to the sand.

The Warmaster swore and frantically scrabbled back in the sand just as the demon's fist crushed into the ground where his leg had been only a moment before.

This was beginning to get untenable. The Warmaster had to get a move on. He felt he had given Anesti and Brezhnov enough time to get set up—they had agreed that fifteen minutes would suffice. He had been fighting Fel-Ungrroth for at least five, and had been advancing through the encampment for ten minutes before that. It would have to be enough—Athellenas knew that it was only a matter of time before Fel-Ungrroth overwhelmed him. The Warmaster doubted even Jerrod could have brought it down in a one-on-one fight. Not for the first time—and certainly not for the last time—Athellenas sorely missed his old friend.

The Warmaster tasted blood in his mouth and spat it out into the sand. He drew a deep, ragged breath—as far as his crumpled breastplate would allow—and seemed to break off from the fight, half-running half-stumbling back towards the rend in the Wall.

The five-tailed demon—well, technically it was the _four_-tailed demon, now—grinned even wider and gave chase. Its mistake was that it didn't immediately catch up to Athellenas and finish him. Instead, like a cat with a mouse, it chose to play with its kill. It watched as Athellenas ran away and took its time, almost strolling after the beleaguered Warmaster.

When a passing soldier saw him, they would move to help, but Athellenas quickly waved them off, ordering them away. They would just get in the way.

Finally, Athellenas turned suddenly and attacked once more. The demon had not been expecting this, which would explain the lapse in its guard that allowed Athellenas to stab it right through its left arm.

The demon roared in agony as the super-dense metal slid effortlessly through bone and sinew. It flung its arm back, ripping the sword from Athellenas's grip and sending it flying away. With its other hand, it struck at the Warmaster.

Athellenas had no sword to defend himself with, so the demon was able to easily hit him. One of its claws managed to get into the Y-shaped face slit, taering open a good-sized gash down along Athellenas's left eye and down his cheek. It then attacked again, lazily striking the Warmaster right in the gut.

Athellenas flew at least fifty feet through the air, landing with a painful thud on his shoulder. The Warmaster lay in the sand for a moment, half-blinded by the openly-bleeding laceration on his face, almost every part of his body throbbing in protest. He was getting—no, correction: he had _gotten_ too old for this.

The aging Centralian commander rolled over onto his side, coughing up blood as he moved. Almost delirious with the pain of his wounds, he pushed himself up to his knees, and then to his feet. Athellenas stumbled through the sand, resuming his flight from Fel-Ungrroth.

The demon followed Athellenas, but it now did so with caution. It was not going to allow this infuriating human to surprise it twice. Still…the demon couldn't help but want to keep Athellenas alive a little while longer so it could make his final moments ones of pure agony. Its hearts trembled in pleasure at the thought.

Fel-Ungrroth was already contemplating what horrors he would inflict on the aging human when it noticed that its prey had stopped fleeing, suddenly.

Athellenas turned around and faced the five-tailed demon, but this time he did not charge. He had just accomplished what he had set out to do, and for that he cracked a smile. A low, guttural laugh rose up from the Warmaster's throat.

The demon drew back in temporary surprise. Here this human was, seconds from death, and he was mocking it. _Mocking_ it. The demon growled in sheer anger at the level of insult represented by this human and clenched its fists, preparing to bring them crushing down on the red-armored man.

That was when Athellenas, after he stopped laughing, clapped his hands together and got the demon's undivided attention. "Underestimating me was your last mistake, you ugly son of a bitch," the Warmaster spat, flicking his eyes downward.

Fel-Ungrroth followed the Warmaster's gaze and glanced down at its feet. To the five-tailed demon's surprise, it found that it was standing on the center of a large X that had been drawn into the sand. It had time only to look back up at the Warmaster and see the aging human wave it goodbye before it heard the last sound it would ever hear: roaring cannonfire.

The moment the demon looked back up, Paladin Anesti dropped the light-bending concealment spell that had been hiding him, Sir Brezhnov, and the two rows of field cannons arranged on both sides of the X, all of them aimed at the X's center, right where Fel-Ungrroth was standing. With the spell in full effect, the demon still probably would have been able to see through it, had it been trying to. However, looking for a concealment spell was the last thing on its vengeance-driven mind as it had pursued Athellenas. It walked right into the Centralians' trap.

The moment Anesti dropped the concealment spell, Sir Brezhnov barked the order to fire. The artillerists promptly obeyed and the two dozen field cannons thundered their fury into the demon.

Fel-Ungrroth was silhouetted briefly in the blinding explosion of twenty-four high-explosive cannons shells ripping into its body before the flames burst outward. Everyone was forced to cover their faces to ward off the heat, but the effects of the surprise barrage quickly wore away.

All that was left of Fel-Ungrroth was a scattering of charred bone fragments, tiny pieces of burning flesh, and a single one of its ebony claws. The Warmaster picked up the demon claw and tossed it to the nearest artillerist. "A noteworthy souvenir, don't you think?" he asked the man.

"Thank you, Warmaster," the man saluted in gratitude before tying the claw onto a piece of leather cord, which he then wore around his neck.

Athellenas coughed up more blood and stumbled, falling to one knee. "Well…" he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, after spitting more of his ichor out into the sand. "I'd say that was a job well done…"

As he felt himself being lifted up onto a stretcher, the Warmaster simply smiled. He looked down at his battered breastplate. He could easily get that fixed—the craftsmen accompanying the 1st Element were more than qualified to do the job. But he wasn't worried about that now. He just looked at the one part of his armor that hadn't even gotten a scratch; the area over his heart where he had tucked the spiritweed flower.

The Warmaster rested his head back, content to close his eyes and feel the warmth of the rising sun on his eyelids as the medics carried him back towards the field hospitals on the ridge beyond the Wall.

Shantay Pass was now in Centralian hands. Athellenas decided to declare a week's rest, to give the men a much-needed break after this level of fighting, and then they would resume.

And this time…the next demon who Athellenas intended to have killed was Thammaron himself.


	20. Chapter 20: Doubts

Chapter Twenty: Doubts

Avis muttered under his breath as he tipped his last armful of firewood into the pile next to the cottage's door. Whoever would have thought that such a small living space would engender so many chores? The floor had to be swept, the rugs had to be beaten, the beds made, the meals cooked, the firewood gathered, the chimney cleaned—the list just went on. The pale-skinned boy suspected that Jerrod had probably used magic to assist him with the chores, but now that the old Cleric had him for an apprentice…why not try to make his life hell?

Father Jerrod, standing at the shore of his islet near to his cottage, watched as his new apprentice dropped the wood into the pile, a wry grin spreading onto his face. He had never had an apprentice before—he had never considered himself a teacher—so he had never realized how _fun_ it could be. The boy had limitless magical potential—Jerrod could sense that outright—but housework always came first.

The Cleric quickly wiped away the smile before the boy could see it and returned his attention to the water in front of him. He held out his hands and, concentrating his magical energies, bent the surface. A thin snake of water slid up into the air, following the contours of Jerrod's hand movements. Jerrod solidified the rope of water into a denser sphere and started running through basic exercises with it. He would shape it into a cube, then into a many-pointed star before twisting and manipulating it into ever more complex shapes—at one point, he even tied combination knots with it.

As Jerrod stretched the water back out into its original rope-like shape, he became aware of Avis watching him from behind. "I don't seem to recall telling you to stop at four batches of firewood," the Cleric remarked. He pulled the rope of water around himself until the two ends joined, resulting in a ring of water, about three meters in diameter, held around shoulder height.

"But I-" Avis started to protest, but Jerrod quelled him with a stern expression.

"No buts," the Cleric shook his head. "Get that last batch of firewood, and you'll be done."

Avis let out a disgruntled sigh and strode off, heading back over the earthen bridge linking the island to the shore of the lake. That natural bridge had been created by Jerrod so that Avis could cross the lake. Jerrod personally preferred creating a path of ice, but Avis did not know anything about Water magic yet, so he had to make do with an artificial bridge.

When Avis returned, having gathered one last bundle of firewood for the stove in Jerrod's cottage, he ambled over to the southern shore of the islet, where Jerrod was still running through his exercises with water.

"I've finished getting the firewood," the boy announced, hoping to get to do something interesting for a change. "Can we start?"

"What's your rush?" Jerrod queried, breaking the circle of water and condensing it into three smaller-sized spheres, which he started to juggle. "To be a mage requires patience and temperance; two qualities you would do well to learn, boy. Have you been practicing with your blade?"

Avis nodded. For the past two weeks, Jerrod had been brutally training him in swordsmanship and self-defense by sparring with short swords. Their edges had been temporarily blunted to avoid killing someone during a training bout, but they were still capable of injuring. At the end of every sparring match, Jerrod would use Water to heal Avis's wounds, which were usually many. At first, Avis had barely known one end of the sword from the other…but after two weeks of nonstop fighting with it, he was beginning to pick it up reasonably well.

"I suppose I'm about to be the judge of that," Jerrod smiled mirthlessly. He combined the three juggling balls of water in to a larger sphere, and then allowed it to flow onto his hand, where it conformed to the shape like a glove. He shed the excess water and let the remainder concentrate around his fingers. The Cleric then froze the water into points and cast them into the nearest tree. The finger-shaped ice spikes thudded into the tree, embedding themselves into the bark. Had they hit a human, they would have been just as deadly as throwing knives.

Avis watched his master's use of Water with a large degree of interest. He had never imagined that Water could be effectively weaponized, but he had just learned something new. "When do I learn how to do that?"

"That depends on your skill with your blade and body, without which you are _nothing,_" Jerrod answered cryptically before suddenly lashing out with his hand and striking Avis in the back of his neck.

The boy cried out at the sudden, unexpected pain, falling to his knees and clutching at the spot where he had been hit. "What did you do that for?" he cried out.

Jerrod didn't answer that question. Instead, he thrust his face right into the boy's and snapped, "What the hell was that, Avis? Huh? It definitely wasn't being prepared to defend yourself _at all times_ like I told you! Zamorak's minions are out hunting for you, boy, and they're not going to announce themselves to you before they attack. You have to be _ready_-" The Cleric struck at Avis once more, but this time the boy ducked the blow and rolled off to the side, springing back up to his feet.

Jerrod stepped forward. "-for _anything_-" The Cleric aimed a powerful kick towards Avis's stomach, but again the boy evaded.

"-at _anytime!_" Jerrod feinted left with an uppercut strike, waiting for Avis to make his move. Just as he expected, the boy ducked and moved to sidestep the Cleric's blow. Jerrod, sensing his next move, lashed out again, this time striking the air to the right of Avis's head. His fist reached the target just as Avis stepped into it. The boy was thrown back several feet by the force of the blow.

In a millisecond, Jerrod was kneeling over the boy, a fist raised right over his face. "And now," the Cleric said matter-of-factly, fire erupting from his knuckles, "you're dead."

Jerrod extinguished the flames and extended a hand, helping Avis back up to his feet. "Better that time," the Cleric observed. "You were on your guard."

"Lot of good it did me…" Avis grumbled, rubbing the sore spot on his jaw where Jerrod's fist had crashed into his face.

"Mm," Jerrod hummed in response before saying, "You know what your problem is?"

"Enlighten me," Avis rolled his eyes.

"Your problem is habit. You've lived on the streets of Ullek you're entire life, but I doubt you were a lawful citizen. As a thief, your mantra, your way of life has always revolved around being fast and evasive. You don't fight your enemies head-on; you duck and dodge, and then you escape, leaving them in the dust," Jerrod observed, accurately describing Avis's life on the streets.

Avis started to protest. "I wouldn't have stood a chance if I had-"

Jerrod held up his hand, tinkering with the air in Avis's throat and rendering him mute. The boy's mouth kept moving for a second before he realized that there was no sound coming out. "I am not passing judgment upon your former life—far from it," the Cleric explained, releasing his grip on Avis's voice. "I am merely bringing to light that the way you lived your life in Ullek is affecting the way you defend yourself. You are predictable in that, when facing an enemy, you will always try to evade his attacks."

The Cleric paused for a moment and produced his Badb pipe, placing it in his mouth and igniting it with a short burst of flame from his index finger. He took a small puff from the pipe, exhaling a smoke ring into the air. "What you were doing against me; that will not do the job against Zamorak's minions. If you're supposed to bring this damned war to an end, then you're definitely going to be fighting a good deal of Zamorak's filth…maybe even Zamorak himself…" the Cleric's voice trailed off as another thought occurred to him. "You can invoke Air magic, can't you?"

Avis nodded. "I've been able to since I was four."

"Four?" Jerrod echoed. "Pretty damn young for a mage… and that reminds me; when I found you, Farrah mentioned something about you getting shot in the chest with an arrow. When we eat dinner, I expect a good story."

The rest of the day seemed to stretch on into eternity for Avis. He lost count of the sheer number of times Jerrod tossed him back his sword and ordered him to attack. He sparred with Jerrod on the beach on the western shore of the islet. He seemed to make no progress; every time he attacked the Cleric, he would get disarmed within five seconds, then knocked flat within another three.

Finally, after several hours of humiliation at the hands of the Cleric, the boy was ready to toss his shortsword into the lake in frustration. "You're too good!" Avis was moaning. "How am I supposed to beat you when-"

"I keep kicking your ass into next week every time because I know what you're going to do before _you_ know what you're going to do," Jerrod retorted, interrupting the boy before he could finish his complaint. "And that's because you're thinking about what you want to do before you actually _do_ it."

Avis made a face. "Huh?" was all he could say.

Jerrod took a different approach to the subject. "Look at it this way," he said. "Say you have two swordsmen facing off with each other. One fights of his own volition, but the other swordsman must take commands from another person. Now, regardless of their skill level, which man will win the fight?"

"The one who fights on his own," Avis immediately answered.

"Exactly," Jerrod nodded. "And that is because the other man must first react to his given commands before executing the attack. This is the same situation with you, boy; you're thinking too much. Your sword is a part of you—it is an extension of your arm and, by default, your will. When you fight with it enough, it will become exactly that. Right now, you're thinking about what you should do too much. You see me swing at your neck, and you think _block_ before actually _doing_ it. You need to stop thinking, and just…_do_."

"How do you do it?" Avis sighed, still trying to make heads and tails of Jerrod's mini-lesson.

"Repetition," the Cleric replied. "I trained with a blade so much that, eventually, it just became second nature to me. You will be doing the same thing; your swordsmanship will be addressed whilst I am introducing you to the other elements."

"Why, though? I'm supposed to be a mage, not a swordsman."

Jerrod let out a bark of laughter. "You should hear yourself, boy; you sound like everyone who knew me back on Entrana. Tell me; what happens when a swordsman manages to get close up to an enemy archer? I'll answer it for you: the swordsman kills the archer because the archer doesn't know how to fight in a melee battle. I am teaching you how to use a sword so that if at some point in your life your magic should fail you, Saradomin forbid, you will always have another way to defend yourself. Granted, you will be using magic much more often than a blade, but mastering _both_ methods of fighting will put you at a huge advantage. You are too valuable to be left potentially vulnerable in such a way."

"Wouldn't want Saradomin to lose his little prize fighter, eh?" Avis muttered.

Jerrod laughed again, a cynical, sarcastic burst of emotion. "Avis, the sooner you accept the fact that we're all ultimately just pawns in the Gods' little game, the better. And be happy you're on Saradomin's side. Sure, Saradominists certainly have their flaws, but had Zamorak gotten you into his clutches…had you been captured by the Dark One, you would not be learning the elements like this. Instead, he would break your mind. Your identity, your free will; _pfft_-" Jerrod clapped his hands and spread them into the air, "Gone."

The Cleric paused to swallow another mouthful of his fillet. "Well, that, or he would have just killed you," he quickly added. "So I know sometimes you're thinking you've got a raw deal here—you lost your home, you lost your friends, you're being forced into a War, etc. But whenever you're feeling like that, whenever you find yourself getting mad at Saradomin, or even at me for what we are doing to you…just remember that the alternative is complete and utter hell. Now," the Cleric flicked Avis's sword back up to the boy, who promptly caught it out of the air with one hand. "Try again."

"So, I'm not supposed to think about what I'm doing with this thing?" Avis clarified as he twirled the blade around his wrist.

"That 'thing,' as you so eloquently put it, is _you,_" Jerrod reminded the boy. "And after you train with it long enough, you won't _have_ to think."

"So until then, I'm stuck with getting beaten up every time?"

Jerrod's smile would have made a wolf cringe. "Yep," the Cleric nodded. He wasn't even finished talking when he attacked once again, opening with a swift thrust towards the chest.

An hour and several bruises later, Avis and Jerrod retired to the cottage. The sun had already set in the west, but it wasn't dark yet. The light of the retired sun still lingered in the sky, trying in vain to keep the world illuminated a little while longer before night set in.

Jerrod fried up two fillets of Centralian Ilespa fish. He had retrieved them from one of his three fish traps, which he set up liberally in lakes throughout the swamp, including the lake which his island was in. Every two days, he would check each of the three traps and take the spoils back to his islet for food.

The Cleric was a seasoned cook. He had spent ten years in this swamp; cooking had been one of the first things he had mastered in an effort to make his life less miserable. As the fillets started to brown, he rummaged through his cabinet and sprinkled a diverse array of spices and seasonings onto the fish.

"Ever eat fish before, boy?" Jerrod asked over the table as Avis took his first bite.

Avis nodded. "Yeah, but only once or twice, and it was a while ago. And…well, it wasn't anything like this…"

Jerrod grunted, appreciative of the praise of his cooking. "Well, I'll believe you there. The key is in the seasoning, boy. When you cook up fish and eat it plain, it tastes like absolutely nothing. But add in seasonings, soak it in lemon juice, maybe throw in a few secret spices…" the Cleric gave a moan of pleasure, as if just _talking_ about his fish made his mouth water. "We can't have this every night, though," he sighed. "If we take too much fish from the lakes in this swamp, the whole ecosystem gets screwed up. That won't happen, not on my watch."

"The what?" Avis cocked his head, never having heard that term before.

"The ecosystem," Jerrod repeated. "Nature is all about balance, boy. You have predators and prey. Those predators will also be prey for a larger animal, and the prey will also be predators to a smaller animal, and so on. That's called the food chain. The point is, if you take away one element of this system, the whole balance collapses. If you take away prey, the predator starves. If you take away a predator, the prey overpopulates the environment and destroys it anyway."

"I think I understand…"

"It's not essential for your training, but it _is_ handy knowledge to possess," Jerrod admitted, digging into his own Ilespa fillet. "So," the Cleric mumbled in between bites. "I believe you have a story to tell me, if I'm not mistaken. How does a ten-year-old boy get an arrow in his chest, hm?"

"Well, it's kind of a long story," Avis warned the older man. "It was…two or three weeks ago, I think, when the Qarat arrested me. They left me in a cell for a few days, then they conscripted me into a penal battalion…"

Avis went on to describe the bloodbath that the penal battalion had walked into when it had faced the death knights south of Ullek. Jerrod winced when Avis recounted the one-sided battle—he knew how nasty death knights could be. The Cleric frowned when Avis described how he lost consciousness and then woke up to find all the death knights destroyed, seemingly by his own hand, but Jerrod didn't interrupt.

Avis then told Jerrod about how he had manipulated the air around him to create an artificial jet of sorts, one that was able to keep him aloft while propelling him forward at great speed. "I broke through the Qarat's defenses and I started doing this wind jet trick... It wasn't that I already knew how to do it; I was just sort of…inspired, you know? So I manage to gain enough altitude to clear the walls of Ullek, and I go right over…but one of the archers manning the wall got me right in the chest as I went past. I managed to land and get to the slum where Farrah's shop was, but I lost consciousness before I got there. Next thing I know…I'm waking up in that bed over there."

Jerrod whistled softly, eating another bite of fish. "Quite a story," the Cleric remarked. "_Quite_ a story… You used Air magic to fly, you said?"

"Yeah," Avis nodded. The boy looked up and noticed the look Jerrod was giving him. "What; that's not normal?"

"Uh…_no_," the Cleric shook his head slowly. "That's not even remotely normal. No one's ever been able to achieve flight before, with _any_ type of magic."

Avis raised an eyebrow. "Has anyone ever tried, before?"

Jerrod opened his mouth to answer, but quickly closed it again. To tell the truth, the Cleric didn't know the answer to Avis's question. He had never personally tried to use magic to fly, and he had never seen or heard of anyone _else_ try to do the same thing…

"Okay, you got me there," the Cleric conceded. Just as Jerrod was about to return to his meal, he suddenly remembered what he was going to ask Avis from before. "My one fault with your story… When you were sent into battle with that penal battalion, you said that you defeated the entire group of death knights."

"Not defeated," Avis corrected, shaking his head. "_Destroyed_."

"Yes, yes," Jerrod nodded, waving his hand. "Mind telling me how the hell you managed that? Actually, scratch that. I want to see for myself."

"How will you do that? I can't exactly show you…"

"Through a mind infusion," Jerrod replied. Before Avis could speak, the Cleric held up a hand and silenced him. "I'll explain how it works to you some other time. All you need to do is focus on that moment…and then relax and let me in. Can you do that?"

"Um…I think so…"

Jerrod wolfed down the last of his fish and wiped his mouth on his hand, pushing his chair back and standing up. He walked around the table and approached Avis, who looked at him like he had a second head.

Avis let Jerrod put a hand on his forehead. For a moment he just sat there, but he quickly remembered what the Cleric had instructed him to do. He closed his eyes and visualized one of the last things he remembered from that bloodbath with the penal battalion. He had been standing alone, surrounded by the bodies of slain criminals…the sand had been soaked red with blood, crows were slowly descending from the sky, and the death knights were closing in…

Suddenly, Jerrod found himself in the middle of the carnage. It was as if he were watching Avis from the perspective of an observer. He winced as he watched the boy try—and fail—to attack the death knight that had just killed Nasser, the tattooed criminal who Avis had shared a cell with.

The death knight picked up a dazed Avis by the neck, giving its trademark hiss. Jerrod watched Avis killed the death knight by punching it through the visor slits with super-concentrated wind. "_Not _bad…" the Cleric murmured, impressed. He then continued to observe Avis as the death knights all converged on him. There were well over a dozen of the monsters, all swinging at Avis with their dark blades at the same time. The boy dodged the swords for a few seconds before something extraordinary happened.

Jerrod's eyes widened in shock as he watched what happened next. Avis had mentioned when he had woken up that all he remembered before losing consciousness was a bright flash of searing white light. Now, Jerrod was about to find out what _really_ happened.

Almost as if a critical point had been reached and passed, Avis hunkered down into a crouching stance. Jerrod noticed that the boy's eyes had started to glow white. They were glowing so bright that all Jerrod could see were two orbs of light—no pupil, no iris; just white light.

Because what Jerrod was seeing was Avis's memories, it appeared to Jerrod as Avis had experienced it. For Avis, time seemed to have slowed down at this point, so when Jerrod watched the unfolding battle from afar, it looked like it was going in slow motion. As the death knights closed in on the boy, motes of white energy began to wink into existence around him. More and more spots of white appeared, swirling around Avis like a swarm of bright white fireflies. The individual points of pulsing white energy bled into each other, solidifying into a vortex. The whirlwind of white light spun around Avis faster and faster until he was just a dark silhouette in the center.

Jerrod saw Avis clench his fists and rise to his feet. The boy let out a near-animalistic scream—a piercing noise that sounded…well, _inhuman_. Jerrod also noticed something odd about Avis's head; it looked almost like his head would turn into a flaming skull, then flash back to normal. The boy lashed out with his fist at the nearest death knight.

A blade of white energy lanced out from the vortex and seared right through the center of the death knight's breastplate. The monster gave a pained, hissing roar and crumpled to the sand, lying motionless.

That first kill must have been just a test of sorts, because after that death knight fell, all hell broke loose. Avis went crazy, lashing out with his fists, knees, elbows, and feet. The vortex of white energy broke into something resembling a lightning storm. Bolts of the white energy would lance into the nearest death knights, quickly killing them, and then they would shoot out and take down the more distant death knights.

The monsters tried attacking all of Avis's sides at once, but none of them could get close. Avis blocked every attack with his seemingly-unstoppable white energy. Bolts of the pure white energy mimicked Avis's motions, cleaving the dark blades into pieces and ripping through the death knights' armor like an Ainuido katana through tall grass. Death knights were falling left and right, unable to even lay a finger on the boy.

Avis was like a force of nature—_no_, Jerrod shook his head. The boy wasn't _like_ a force of nature…he _was_ a force of nature. He seemed like many things right then, but he did _not_ seem like a boy anymore. It was as if the imminent danger to his life, mixed with fear and adrenaline, had awakened something within Avis…something buried deep inside him, something that rarely ever showed itself. But what could that something be?

Jerrod already knew the answer. That something was Avis. It was not Avis the orphan thief, who had spent his entire life scratching out a living on the streets of Ullek. It was the real Avis, the _true_ Avis. It was the person who would bring the War to an end.

This entire fight lasted only for a few moments. Within five seconds, the entire force of death knights had been wiped out. The violent storm of white energy calmed down, forming into the shape of Avis's body. It shrank in size until it enveloped Avis like a second skin. It then shimmered and vanished, disappearing into the boy's chest. The light in Avis's eyes went out and the boy collapsed, falling unconscious into the sand.

Jerrod's eyes flew open and he gasped, holding onto the back of Avis's chair to keep from falling over. Mind infusions were always tiring for him, which is why he rarely performed them.

The whole ordeal had only taken ten seconds, maximum. From Avis's perspective, Jerrod had simply stood still and silent for eight or ten seconds, and then he had suddenly faltered, gasping for breath as if he had been holding it for two minutes. The pale-skinned boy got out of the chair and grabbed Jerrod's arm, supporting the older man. "Are you alright?"

"_Son of a bitch_…" the Cleric murmured quietly, not even noticing that he had just used blatant profanity, looking curiously at the boy. "You really _are_ the boy from the Prophecy…" Jerrod had never doubted what Saradomin had shown him—that Avis was the one who would bring the God Wars to an end—but he had never truly believed it one hundred-percent. The concept that this orphan boy from the streets of some desert city could fulfill such an important role in this world was…well, Jerrod just couldn't truly believe it all the way.

What he had just seen in Avis's memories changed that. He knew that Avis was unquestionably the boy from the Prophecy. The Anima Mundi blazed in him like a sun.

"When you took out those death knights…" Jerrod paused, circling back around to his seat and sinking into it. He shook his head for a moment, then continued to speak: "Have you any idea what you _did_ to those knights?"

Avis shook his head no, sitting back down as well. "I told you; I don't remember anything past the white flash."

"Incorrect," Jerrod replied. "You don't _consciously_ remember a thing…but your _sub_conscious does. That must be how I was still able to see what you did, through your memory…"

"Okay, then," Avis cleared his throat, returning the majority of his attention to the remains of the Ilespa fillet in front of him. "How did I take those suckers down? All I remember is white light…and that doesn't sound like any of your elements."

"No…" Jerrod shook his head again. "It sounds _exactly_ like one of my elements. It sounds like the Fifth Element."

"What, now? I thought there were only _four_ elements…"

Jerrod ignored Avis's comment. He stared across the table at the boy, deep in thought. So many things were out of place. Nothing was normal about this kid.

He was in a divine Prophecy on the Stone of Jas, he could use magic without the assistance of runestones, he achieved feats with his powers that most other mages never even thought of…and now Jerrod had just seen a memory of him destroying an entire group of death knights with the Fifth Element, which no mage in all of Gielinor had ever mastered. A large group of expert mages was usually able to invoke the Fifth Element, but Avis had done it all by himself…

These capabilities…the best way Jerrod could describe them at first was _impossible_. But, that was an incorrect assessment, as the boy was actively _doing_ all of those impossible things. Jerrod looked at his apprentice now and realized that 'impossible' _had_ been a correct evaluation…impossible for _humans_. Farrah had told him that he had had suspicions that Avis was not Human. Jerrod had dismissed the old Menaphite at first, but now…

Avis's abilities were not impossible, but _inhuman_. Jerrod's gaze was unreadable as he scrutinized the pale-skinned boy. He had made up his mind about whether or not Avis was a Human the moment he saw him destroy those death knights with the Fifth Element. Only one question ran through Jerrod's mind at the moment.

_What the hell _are_ you?_


	21. Chapter 21: The Stranger

Chapter Twenty-One: The Stranger

The Elid River was a sight for sore eyes. Athellenas's men had been marching through endless desert for weeks, now. Oh, there had been supplies of water in the cities they liberated, or the water holes they came across…but none of that even came close to comparing to the Elid River.

It had been three weeks since the victory at Shantay Pass. Sir Derren's covert attack right before dawn had succeeded—the young knight who served as Athellenas's second-in-command had taken a team of soldiers and artillerists behind the Shantay Wall, armed with high-explosive cannon shells. Using those shells, the strike team blew open the gate, allowing the entire 1st Element to pour through like molten lead into a mould.

The horde of Fel-Ungrroth had been devastated by the surprise attack, trampled under the hooves of Sir Havarell's cavalry. The legions quickly caught up and put down the monsters that had survived the cavalry charge.

Several thousand monsters had survived the carnage, and they had fled the Shantay Pass. Sir Havarell's cavalry had chased a good number of them down, but a few still managed to get away.

No matter, though. Let those monsters alert Thammaron that the Centralians were coming for him; the 1st Element was not trying to be stealthy.

After a week's rest to recover from the victory at Shantay Pass, Athellenas got the 1st Element moving once more. The Centralians marched south for a week, making their way through miles of burning, dry desert. Water had to be rationed and conserved, else the army would perish of thirst long before they even came close to Uzer. It had been a hot and miserable march, but the soldiers had done it without too much complaint.

Now, the sight of the Elid River was enough to elicit a deafening roar of cheering and whooping as the soldiers broke ranks and hurried down to the riverbank to refill their canteens.

Athellenas briefly considered trying to reel the men back in, but decided just to let them go. They had been marching a long time, and they deserved a quick rest. In the meantime…

"Gather the command staff," Athellenas ordered Sir Derren, his second-in-command.

Sir Derren gave a quick nod and rode off back into the column to seek the generals, artillery commander, and cavalry commander. Athellenas watched the young knight ride off with a measure of satisfaction.

In the past, most people had always been skeptical of having a knight as young as Derren in a position as high as second-in-command to the Warmaster. Even the soldiers had been wary of being placed under the command of someone so young, afraid that his inexperience would result in unneeded deaths.

No more. Sir Derren had permanently earned his place in the 1st Element after his part in breaching the Shantay Pass Wall. No one ever questioned his courage or inexperience any longer. Athellenas could see the newfound respect for his second-in-command as the soldiers all stepped to the side and gave respectful nods and salutes to him as he rode by.

This was especially good, because it gave Athellenas the secure feeling that, should ill fortune befall him, Sir Derren would be able to take the reins of the 1st Element without any trouble from the very men he would be leading.

Athellenas ended up giving the order to set up camp on the bank of the river. It was only midday, but reaching the Elid had been a milestone in the march to Uzer. Less than ten minutes later, as the soldiers unpacked their tents and started to pitch them, Athellenas met with the command core of the 1st Element in the central command tent.

"Congratulations are in order for us all," Athellenas said to the other commanders. "We have successfully reached the Elid River. Against insurmountable odds, we have so far prevailed. We have accomplished the impossible and survived the unsurvivable. But we are not finished…" the Warmaster took a drink from his water canteen.

"What is the word from Tethys, Warmaster?" General Dhalit, the leader of the X Legion, asked. His question was a good one; the 1st Element had had very little contact with the outside world during their campaign through the Menaphite Desert.

"Nothing warm and fuzzy, I'm afraid," Athellenas sighed. "King Osman sends reports of further unrest in the Hallowlands. The Iceyene are keeping pretty hush-hush about it, but there is definitely something bad happening to the east. I also received word from an old friend that Ullek has been destroyed…Thammaron is now concentrating all of his armies around Uzer. Hell, for all we know he's already _taken_ the city."

"Pardon my interruption, Warmaster," General Dhalit spoke up. "From where I see things, Uzer is lost. Thammaron's hordes have already crossed the Elid River long ago—they must already surround Uzer. By the time we reach the Menaphite capital, it will have surely fallen."

"Perhaps," Athellenas conceded.

"What I'm trying to say is…why are we still out in this desert? There is nothing more we can do for the Menaphites—they have been defeated. We should be returning to Centralia and consolidating our defenses."

"Your reasoning is valid, General," Athellenas nodded approvingly. "But you are looking at this the wrong way. Uzer is not our objective; Thammaron is. If we do not destroy Thammaron and his horde here, in this desert…then we shall have to do it amongst our homes, for Centralia will be his next target. He must be stopped _here_."

None of the commanders could argue with that reasoning. Much as the soldiers longed for home, none of them would want to be fighting these horrible monsters in the beautiful forests and grasslands of Centralia. Such a war would destroy the kingdom.

"Our first order of business is getting across this river…" Athellenas said, unrolling a map of Gielinor and spreading it flat onto the table, pointing out the thin, winding blue line that was the Elid River. "We must find a way to cross it, otherwise we will have to march south all the way to where it goes underground…about two weeks' march. We do not have the time for such a detour."

"I would imagine that the Menaphites no doubt burned any bridges spanning the river to try to slow Thammaron down," General Sinclair surmised.

"Thammaron would not need to use any bridges, anyway," Sir Derren shrugged. "The Menaphites have only succeeded in slowing _us_ down."

"I propose we send a detachment of my scouts downriver," Sir Havarell suggested, thoughtfully stroking his short, black goatee. "See if there are any nearby fords."

"Agreed," Athellenas nodded. "Do this when we are finished here. If there are no nearby fords, we will have to move south. My only worry is that if we take too long to reach Uzer, Thammaron may have already moved on."

Athellenas cleared up a few more logistics issues with his generals before concluding the council, sending the commanders off to oversee their men, and Sir Havarell to put together a force of scouts to explore the Elid to the south.

The Warmaster went to the place in the encampment where Sir Derren had pitched his tent and quickly set up his own next to that of his second-in-command. When he was finished, he removed his helmet, along with most of his armor, wearing only light cloth shirt and pants that he always wore under his armor for padding.

Athellenas spent the next hour or so washing these clothes—they hadn't been washed since the 1st Element had left Shantay Pass. He did this at one of the supply wagons, where the head quartermaster kept a gigantic washboard which was being utilized by a dozen other soldiers as well as Athellenas.

The Warmaster's clothes dried incredibly quick under the hot desert sun. He quickly got dressed in his tent, donning a leather vest and a belt. He sat down and pulled his ebony pipe, which he had gotten out of Onyx's saddlebags. For a short while he just relaxed in front of his tent, leaning against Onyx, who was resting on his stomach in the sand. The steady rhythm of the battlehorse's breathing helped calm Athellenas down.

"Good evening, Warmaster Athellenas," a voice suddenly said, jerking Athellenas out of his rest.

Athellenas, whom common soldiers respected, but rarely spoke to, was curious to see who would approach him. He knew that it was not one of his generals or auxiliary commanders—he would have recognized the voice. This voice was unfamiliar.

Athellenas opened his eyes, looking at the owner of the voice. It was a thin, rather average-looking man with red hair and a short red beard. He wore a small, angled hat that had two red-and-white feathers sticking out of the back, almost like horns. He also had eyes that were an odd shade of brown. Athellenas had never seen him before. He certainly hadn't accompanied the 1st Element from Centralia.

Athellenas instinctively glanced at his sword, which was lying within arm's reach.

The stranger noticed the movement and laughed quietly. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me, Warmaster," the red-haired man spread his hands wide. "If I wished you harm, you would have been dead before you could have had the chance to lay eyes on me."

"How do you know my name?" Athellenas decided to ask, figuring it was a safe enough question to spark a conversation with this mysterious man.

"You've made quite a name for yourself around these parts, Athellenas," the stranger replied. "Thammaron himself knows of you. He knows how you killed the five-tailed demon, and he is looking forward to spilling your blood."

Athellenas tensed. Was this man an enemy? "Are you in league with-"

The stranger stepped forward and crouched down in front of Athellenas, coming level with the Warmaster's face. "I most certainly am _not,_" the stranger whispered. "You are brave, Warmaster. Your men are brave as well, but you are leading them to a slaughter. All you shall find in Uzer is your destruction. Thammaron cannot be defeated by steel and gunpowder. You will need my help."

"Are you a mage?" Athellenas inquired.

The stranger stood back up, taking a step away from the Warmaster. His mouth curved in a half-smile. "Of a sort," the red-aired man answered cryptically. "Half a mile down the riverbank, there is a grove of palm trees. Be there tonight when the moon reaches its zenith. Come alone."

And with that, the stranger was gone, walking off behind the nearest tent and mingling with the throng of soldiers. When Athellenas sprang to his feet to pursue the man, he could not find him. It was as if he had never been there at all.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Sir Derren asked the Warmaster as he slipped into his armor. Athellenas had told Derren about his encounter with the red-haired stranger. Derren had been against Athellenas's going to meet this stranger, but the Warmaster disagreed with his second-in-command.

"If he wished to harm me, he could have already done so," Athellenas replied. "And he was right; we are heading towards slaughter. I have been driving myself crazy trying to think of a way to take down Thammaron that wouldn't result in most of our deaths, but…" the Warmaster sighed, strapping his sword to his belt. "This man says he can help. What sort of leader would I be if I did not investigate a possible way to save some of my men's lives?"

"At least let me come with you," Sir Derren tried to compromise, but Athellenas shook his head.

"I must go alone," the Warmaster asserted. He strode out of his tent and whistled to Onyx. The gray and white steed trotted forward, rising from his resting place. Athellenas swung himself into the saddle. "Hold down the fort whilst I am away," he said to Derren before digging his heels into Onyx's flank, spurring the horse forward.

A full moon hung high in the sky, surrounded by the star-sprinkled black void of the night sky. Onyx moved forward at a steady canter, just shy of a full gallop. The waters of the Elid moved with him, the moonlight reflecting off of the surface, like the Gods themselves were shining a lamp over the river.

Sure enough, after a few minutes' ride, a grove of palm trees came into view. It was one of the many patches of vegetation that existed along the banks of the river. As he had indicated, the stranger was sitting cross-legged in the middle of this grove, deep in meditation.

Athellenas brought Onyx down to a slow trot, and then a full halt. He didn't bother tethering the horse to one of the trees; Onyx never willingly wandered too far from his master, unless Athellenas specifically ordered him to.

The Warmaster's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword as he walked towards the stranger, but he forced himself to remain calm. The stranger had no reason to harm him _now_ when he could have done it back at his tent.

"I am glad you have come," the stranger said, not moving from his meditating position. "Good leaders know when they need help. Excellent leaders are the ones who actively pursue it, choosing it over any sense of misguided personal pride."

"I would never admit it to my men, but you were right," Athellenas confessed, standing behind the stranger. "This whole time, we have been marching to Uzer. What we would do once we got there, once we clashed with Thammaron…" Athellenas shook his head. "I've been agonizing over it for a long time, but I do not know how to bring him down without getting all of my men killed in the process. If you know of a way to avoid such a bloodbath…"

Athellenas hesitated, and then—as an act of trust—unsheathed his sword and dropped it off to the side.

The stranger, recognizing the act of trust, opened his eyes. Athellenas now saw that the stranger's eyes were not some odd shade of brown—they were actually a deep red. The stranger turned around to face Athellenas, getting up to his feet. "You play a dangerous gamble, disarming yourself in this way. I am a stranger who, before today, you have never known. A stranger whose motives still remain unknown to you. Either you are extremely intelligent, or just plain stupid. I am willing to lean towards 'intelligent'. You would trust me?"

"Can I afford not to?"

The stranger gave a low laugh. "No. You cannot," he chuckled. "I like you, Warmaster. I don't meet many men like you, but when I do...when I do, I consider it a treat."

"Let us talk, then," Athellenas gestured for the man to sit back down, doing so himself. "How do we take down Thammaron?"

"You don't," the stranger replied. Before Athellenas could say anything, the red-haired man held up a hand, preventing the Warmaster from speaking, and clarified. "Killing Thammaron and defeating his horde will be _my_ job."

"You?" Athellenas raised a curious, but skeptical eyebrow. "By yourself?"

"It'll be an exercise, I admit, but perfectly within my ability," the stranger said. "I can see that you do not believe that I can defeat them all. Well, I can understand that, but in this matter, _you_ shall have to trust _me_. Killing Thammaron is _my_ job."

"Alright…" Athellenas scrutinized the man with new eyes. He was a straight-talker, and he hadn't lied yet. Athellenas detected no lie in the man's voice and expression as he spoke, so there was a strong possibility that he was telling the truth. The Warmaster had no idea _how _this strange man would take down Thammaron's entire horde, but if he said he could…

"What do you need from me, then?" Athellenas asked, getting straight to the point. "If you are perfectly capable of taking down Thammaron by yourself, then you would have done so already. Obviously, I need you to keep my men alive. But _you_ must need _my_ assistance as well…else you would have had absolutely no reason to approach me."

"You're smarter than you look, Warmaster; has anyone ever told you that?" the stranger nodded, a note of respect in his voice that hadn't been there a second ago. "Yes, I _do_ need the assistance of your men. Uzer has already fallen."

"Uzer is gone?" Athellenas exclaimed. The Warmaster bit his lip nervously—he had not expected the great Menaphite city to fall so quickly.

"Well, no, it's not gone," the stranger corrected the Warmaster. "The city remains, just without the people who lived in it. They are all dead, or scattered. The city itself is now occupied by Thammaron and his hordes…nearly a million of the monsters from your deepest, darkest nightmares, all of them burning Uzer down and thirsting for a bite of your army. You wouldn't last an hour against them all."

"So where do I come in?"

"You need me to defeat Thammaron and his horde," the stranger reiterated, scratching the red scruff on his chin. "But I need you to get me inside the city. Thammaron has enchanted the walls of Uzer to keep the likes of me out. Members of my kind cannot get past those particular enchantments."

"So you need my men to breach the wall so that you can get inside?"

The stranger nodded. "Precisely."

Athellenas rose to his feet, extending a hand to the stranger. "I suppose we have a deal, then."

"I suppose so," the stranger agreed, shaking Athellenas's hand. "I believe you need a way to cross the river, so, as an act of good faith..." the stranger walked over to the riverbank, sank into a sturdy, dense stance, closed his eyes, and raised his hands. Athellenas felt a buzzing sensation, knowing that the stranger was invoking magic.

The surface of the river began to bubble and the ground rumbled slightly. Athellenas watched in awe as the man raised an entire bridge of earth out from the bottom of the river, stretching all the way to the opposite bank. It was wide enough for a score of men to walk abreast of each other. It would be perfect for crossing the Elid. It also must not have been a solid wall of earth, because the river still continued to flow under it.

With that done, the stranger took a deep breath and composed himself, turning away and walking off into the shadows.

"Wait!" Athellenas called after the stranger just before he disappeared into the night. The red-haired man stopped, turning his head to the side so he could hear the Warmaster's question. "I never got your name, stranger. Who are you?"

The stranger hesitated, obviously considering whether or not he should give away his identity. He decided to go ahead and do it. What did he have to lose? "I am known by many names among your kind," the stranger said. "But you may call me Azzanadra."


	22. Chapter 22: Meditation

Chapter Twenty-Two: Meditation

"Invoking the elements is not a mere show of strength; it is a demonstration of your mind, and your ability to bend those forces to _your_ will…" Avis could hear Jerrod lecturing him from behind. The pale-skinned boy was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a small grove of low, gnarly banyan trees. Jerrod was standing off to the edge of the grove, examining the leaves and vines that snaked down towards the ground.

"To master the elements, you must have an understanding of the world around you, as well as an understanding of yourself," Jerrod continued. The Cleric scrutinized the boy with his hawk-like gaze. "Tell me…have you ever noticed anything about Ullek? Not about the physical aspects of the city—I don't care about the buildings, or the streets, or the walls. Have you ever noticed that, at times, you can almost…" Jerrod searched for a good word, "…almost _feel_ the city, just by immersing yourself in it?"

Avis pursed his lips thoughtfully, recalling the countless times he had sat on a high tower or a rooftop, and just closed his eyes. It had almost been as if he had been able to feel and sense the soul of the city, the thrumming energy that made Ullek such a nexus of life. The merchants selling their wares, the wealthy trundling down the streets in their carriages, the outcast and poor wandering the alleys, the Qarat soldiers on their patrols—Ullek had been full of life… It was extremely hard to describe with words…it felt almost as if Avis could put his finger on the pulse of Ullek and just _feel_ the lifeblood of the city flowing all around him.

"Yeah," the boy nodded. "I've felt something like that before."

"Not surprising," Jerrod agreed. "It's difficult for me _not_ to notice it in such a densely populated place as Ullek. Tell me…what do you think that feeling was?"

"You…you mean it's real?"

"No, I'm just wasting my time by asking you a serious question about a figment of your imagination," Jerrod muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "_Yes,_ that feeling is real! Now tell me what you think it was that you were feeling."

"I dunno…" Avis shrugged. "The city was full of life…when you have a lot of people in one place like that, it's almost like you can feel the energy of thousands of people trying to scratch out a living…"

"Well…yes and no," Jerrod said. "You're on the right track. What you are feeling is the Anima Mundi."

"What's the Anima Mundi?" Avis reflexively asked immediately after Jerrod mentioned it. The moment the question was out of his mouth, Avis knew he had made a tactical error.

"You're certainly full of questions, today," the Cleric commented dryly. "Am I speaking too slow for you?"

"No, master, I-"

"No, it's perfectly alright if you'd like me to speed up. If I miss an important detail that may end up saving your life in the future, so what? At least I won't be wasting your ever-so-precious time."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, and I won't do it again," the pale-skinned pleaded in apology, turning to face Jerrod.

Jerrod opened his mouth to berate the boy further, but closed it at the last second. His brow furrowed in a light frown. Yes, Avis needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut…but maybe Jerrod was simply being too hard on him.

The Cleric had spent ten years in this swamp without any outside contact. He had enjoyed that solitary, quiet life. It had been peaceful and tranquil…completely the opposite of his hectic, harried life as a Priori. After ten years of having only the Preluceans for company, the Cleric had become used to the laid-back, relaxed life of a hermit.

When he had first brought Avis to his home, the boy's rabid curiosity and inquisitive nature had grated on the Cleric, but after nearly a month of training him, Jerrod found that he had gotten used to the endless slough of questions. Though he would rather die before admitting it, he was even beginning to _enjoy_ the company. After living for ten years without any human contact, he was realizing just how lonely life could be in a swamp.

Still…there was no need for Avis to know that.

"Assume your posture," Jerrod ordered as Avis turned towards him. The boy quickly turned back around, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. The Cleric continued his quasi-lesson once he was satisfied. "The Anima Mundi is, for lack of a better term, life energy. It exists in you, it exists in me. You felt it in Ullek because the Anima Mundi was present in the thousands of Menaphites who live there, or rather _lived_ there, whom you were surrounded by every single day."

"It was all those people who I was feeling?"

"Yep," Jerrod nodded. "Straighten your back, lift your chin. You were feeling the Anima Mundi, present in the citizens of Ullek. But there's much more to it than that…the Anima Mundi exists in _all_ living things. It exists in every tree, every leaf, every plant, every insect, every bird, every animal…even the tiny microbes that are too small to be seen with the naked eye. It is present in all living things… You already know about it. People usually refer to their Anima Mundi as their 'soul'."

"Why can't I feel it here if it exists everywhere?" Avis asked.

"Because you aren't focused," Jerrod replied. "I want you to empty your mind, boy. Don't let thoughts of the past or future distract you…concentrate, boy, concentrate…"

Avis closed his eyes and tried to do as instructed, but every time he attempted to clear his mind his thoughts would always be drawn back to Ullek, his burned home. Then he would think about the daunting path ahead of him—mastering the elements and bringing an end to the war while keeping out of Zamorak's clutches…it was-

"I would call what you are doing many things," Jerrod remarked, observing the boy. "One thing I would _not_ call it, however, is clearing your mind, like I told you to."

"I can't help it; I keep on thinking about my home…" Avis sighed. "If your home was burned down would _you_ ever stop thinking about it?"

"Well, seeing as I was only an infant when orks burned my village, _yes_, I _could_ stop thinking about it," Jerrod replied, his voice remaining steady. "Can't remember a bloody thing about the dump."

Avis fell silent, unsure if the Cleric was sincere or simply spinning a story to benefit the lesson. Knowing the Cleric, it was impossible to be sure.

"The key to this sort of meditation is focus," Jerrod reiterated, turning back to examine one of the vines of the banyan tree he was standing next to. "I prefer visualization, but it's different for everybody. Some prefer music, others use breathing control…I just think of something peaceful, and I visualize myself there. Give it a try."

"What should I think of?" Avis asked as he settled into a more comfortable position.

Jerrod remembered that this kid had spent his entire life in a city—peaceful places in cities were hard to come by. "Try…" Jerrod tapped his chin for a moment, thinking of something the boy could use. "Try a mountain. Imagine you're at the top of a mountain…sitting down…surrounded by nature, much like you are now. Take deep, long breaths..."

Avis closed his eyes and tried again, taking deep breaths as instructed.

"Now, back to the mountain…" Jerrod murmured. "Are you picturing it?"

"Mm-hm," Avis hummed.

"Make it sunset; one of the most tranquil times of the day…keep taking deep breaths…"

Avis's breathing slowed as the boy relaxed. After a few seconds, it was almost as if he were sitting at the edge of a cliff that he was imagining. The sun was going down in the west, shooting the sky through with red and orange. Birds fluttered in the trees, settling down in their nests for the night.

Avis opened his eyes, taking in the scene. He was sitting on a bed of soft grass, surrounded on three sides by thick vegetation and the edge of the cliff in front. A slight breeze tousled his black hair, disturbing the leaves and plants clustering the cliff edge. The pale-skinned boy rose to his feet tentatively, walking up to the edge of the cliff and looking down.

A waterfall ran down the cliff a mile or so away—its gushing roar could be heard only as a soft, ambient background rumble…almost like distant thunder. The setting sun shone through the veil of mist, resulting in a rainbow haze.

Avis turned away from the edge of the cliff and went back to the center of the patch of grass, running his hands through the vegetation surrounding him. Something behind him gave a high-pitched _tweet_. Avis turned around, coming face-to-face with a hummingbird. Feeliong suddenly inspired, the boy held out his hand. To his delight, the hummingbird flitted forward and landed on his finger.

The moment the bird lighted on his finger, it was almost as if Avis's eyes were opened. He could _feel_ the hummingbird. Not just physically, but also mentally and spiritually. It was a living creature, and therefore a repository of the Anima Mundi. He could feel the life force pulsing within the creature, then realized that he could feel that life energy _everywhere_.

He felt it in the grass he was standing on, in the trees and plants and vines surrounding him, in the flies flitting around the leaves, in the birds nesting in the treetops…he could even feel it in the air. Jerrod had mentioned the existence of miniscule life forms that were too small to be seen with the naked eye—Avis felt every single one. The consistency of the countless life forms in the wind felt like very fine sand to the boy.

He had felt this in Ullek, but it had been painfully limited—he had only felt the people. He hadn't felt the animals, the vermin, or the insects. He hadn't felt the micro-life forms in the wind…it was almost as if he had been looking at the world through a small tube, and now he was finally seeing with his entire eye.

It was beautiful.

The next thing Avis knew, he was being shaken out of his trance by Jerrod. He opened his eyes, throwing out a hand to prevent himself from collapsing to the moss.

"What happened?" the Cleric asked, crouching down behind the boy and helping him sit back up. "You weren't responding..." the older man's voice trailed off as the possible answer presented itself to him, however improbable it may have seemed. In a softer tone, he said, "You were there, weren't you? The mountain you were imagining; you were on it, weren't you?"

"It was the edge of a cliff surrounded by forest, actually," Avis corrected his teacher. "But yeah…it all felt so real…that life energy you mentioned? I could feel it. I could feel it everywhere, just like you said…even in the wind…"

"Normally, I would be surprised," Jerrod murmured. "But…well, surprising me is all you've been doing for the past month so far. The fact that you just did another surprising thing _doesn't_ surprise me at all. I find myself utterly unsurprised. Heh…" the Cleric chuckled at himself. "Amusing paradox…"

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind," Jerrod shook his head, returning his thoughts to the present. "When you were at—the edge of a cliff, you said? When you were in your imagined location, you said you were able to feel the Anima Mundi. How were you able to start feeling it? Did something approach you? Did something…speak or converse with you?"

"Well…" Avis's brow furrowed as he tried to remember when he had started feeling the life of the forest. His eyes lit up when it came back to him. "There was a hummingbird. I held out my hand and it landed on my finger, then I started feeling."

Jerrod nodded, his hypothesis having been confirmed. "That hummingbird landing on your finger was your subconscious finally being awakened to the Anima Mundi all around. Had your mind not been ready, the hummingbird simply would not have landed on your finger."

"And the cliff?"

"All in your mind, of course," Jerrod explained. "You were in what we mages like to call the _Ondr_. It is one of the deepest forms of meditation known to us. Essentially, your mind divorces itself with the real world and retreats deep within itself—beyond physical sensation, beyond distraction, beyond pain. Your body could be ravaged, but in the _Ondr_ you wouldn't feel a thing. If done right…it is the ultimate inner peace. I did not expect you to achieve _Ondr_ your very first time…"

"How long does it usually take?" Avis asked.

"Men have spent lifetimes of meditation, trying to reach _Ondr,_" Jerrod shrugged. "I've done it once or twice, personally, but I enjoy nature much more than I enjoy the inside of my own brain. But for someone with as powerful a life essence as you…meditation is right down your alley. You never know when it may come in handy. During your free time every day, I want you to return to this grove and practice entering the _Ondr_."

"Yes, master."

"Good. The next time you enter, you can contemplate why you have yet to master the downward thrust with your blade."

The rest of the afternoon was devoted to sparring with the shortswords and, sure enough, Avis's downward thrust was still lacking. Though Avis had a long way to go until he could face an enemy with a sword, he was definitely doing a lot better than he had been doing recently. The average length of his bouts with Jerrod had extended from five seconds to roughly fifteen. Jerrod won every single match—he was barely even trying—but Avis was definitely improving.

After they finished, the sun was well on its way to setting in the west, bathing the swamp in its rich, amber light. Master and apprentice both retired to the cottage for the evening meal.

"So what's the Fifth Element?" Avis suddenly asked as Jerrod was putting dinner out on the table.

"Hm?"

"The Fifth Element," Avis repeated himself. "You said I used something called the 'fifth element' to waste those death knights outside of Ullek. I asked you what it was and you never answered me."

"Well…" Jerrod hesitated, but shrugged and proceeded to explain what he knew of the Fifth Element. "I suppose I'll tell you, in reward for your achieving the _Ondr_. The truth is, we don't fully understand the Fifth Element. Everything we know about it is theoretical, as it is impossible to study it like we can the other four elements."

Avis and Jerrod both sat down at the table and started to eat. Jerrod continued to speak between bites.

"The Fifth Element is the oldest of all the elements," Jerrod explained. "We think that it is the building block of…well, _everything_. Similar to the Anima Mundi…but much more abstract. While the Anima Mundi is an energy present in all living things, the Fifth Element is a different type of energy…manifested in the form of this world. Everything in it—living _and_ nonliving things. We think the Gods shaped this world out of it."

"So…everything is the Fifth Element?" Avis ventured, not quite understanding what Jerrod was getting at.

"Yes…and no," the Cleric replied. "It's like comparing clay to a pot. The pot is made out of the clay, but it is molded, shaped, and changed from its original state to become something else. This plane of existence was molded, shaped, and changed from its original state into this world. The Fifth Element is the energy that this world was made out of…but in its pure form. It has no name; we simply call it the 'Fifth Element'."

"I'm assuming it's really hard to use?"

"No individual can invoke the Fifth Element; it is too powerful for anyone's life force to withstand it," Jerrod said. "It is rarely ever used…and the only way to invoke it is with a large group of mages combining their powers, and even then…it's pretty shifty. The way you used it against those death knights was…"

"Impossible?" Avis prompted.

"Obviously not. You are just one huge living disproof…" the Cleric's voice trailed off again, and he paused to take a sip of tea from his wooden cup. "You can cast Air Magic, you say?"

"Mm-hm," Avis nodded, taking another bite.

"Are you any good with it?"

"Yeah, I know my stuff."

The Cleric's smile was equal parts wolfish and anticipating. "I would rather like you to prove that claim with actions, not words. Finish up."

Avis did as he was told, quickly finishing up dinner and getting to his feet, following the Cleric outside. Jerrod walked all the way down to the small beach at the water's edge. He rolled his shoulders, and performed a series of stretches that eased out the kinks in his muscles.

Avis watched Jerrod exercise, resigned to the fact that Jerrod would let him use magic when he was finished, not before. The Cleric started to bend down into a toe-touch when he suddenly leaped into an offensive stance, slicing his hand forward in a chopping motion. A blast of concentrated wind rocketed towards the boy.

Out of pure reflex, Avis leaped back and crossed his arms in an 'X' in front of his face, then spun around on one foot and stamped the other to the ground. Jerrod's blast of wind suddenly hit a barrier of some sort, a bubble of super-dense air that Avis was holding around his body. The wind blast struck the sphere and dispersed.

Jerrod gave an approving grunt. "Not bad…not bad at all…" the Cleric was intrigued because the stance and form of defense the boy had just done were more attuned to Earth Magic than Air Magic. Any normal mage using Air would have evaded Jerrod's attack, or simply deflected it. Avis had planted himself firm and stopped the blast dead in its tracks.

The Cleric manipulated his hands and arms in harried, circular motions, agitating all the air around him. Once the Cleric got all the air under his control, he let out a quick yell and thrust it all forward in a great wave of wind, following up by sweeping a lance of wind towards the boy's feet.

Avis, whose arms were still in the X position across his face, swept them out to his sides. A wedge of wind shot forward, slicing right through Jerrod's oncoming wave of air. The wave was cleanly bisected, passing Avis by on both sides. The boy didn't see the other rope of air heading for his legs, however. Jerrod's secondary attack caught him unawares, throwing him to the ground.

Even as he fell to the ground, Avis gathered the winds around his body, threw his legs up into the air, and streamed all of the wind down past his head, preventing him from landing on his head while simultaneously flipping his body over like a forward roll and landing back on his feet.

As he landed, Avis held out his arms, palms facing each other, and brought them together, almost in a clap. He didn't actually clap, however; he simply held his hands about an inch apart, cupping them as if they held a small ball.

Jerrod grunted with surprise when he found he couldn't move. The air had grown so heavy all of a sudden that it felt as if it were pressing down on him on all sides. He tried to move his arms, but the weight of the air kept them firmly pinned to his sides. He was effectively at the pale-skinned boy's mercy.

"Well, I stand convinced," Jerrod said after Avis released him. "You _do_ know your stuff. I can see that Air is not your natural element…but you certainly are proficient with it… I haven't been bested like that in a very long time…"

"So…" Avis ventured, "…I won?"

Jerrod was quick to nip that victory in the bud. "Don't bet on it," the Cleric grunted. "This was just an exercise with Air Magic. In a real fight, there were a hundred ways I could have countered that move with the other elements."

"Okay," Avis shrugged. His faint grin did not go away, though. He had finally won at something, and he wasn't afraid to have a little mental celebration.

Jerrod saw this, but decided to let it go. The boy had done very well—Jerrod figured he could let him have his moment. He recalled how happy _he_ had been when he had finally defeated his own master on Entrana in a duel of magic, back when he had stopped being an apprentice and graduated into the ranks of the Paladins.

"Alright, alright; _you won,_" Jerrod sighed. "There. I said it. Happy?"

"Yes," was all Avis said in reply, letting his arms fall to his sides, his smile widening a little bit more.

"I bet you are…" the Cleric grumbled, dusting himself off and heading off towards his cottage, gesturing for Avis to follow. "Might as well get an early night's sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a big day, I think."

"We training with Air again?" the boy asked hopefully.

"No," Jerrod yawned. "I think it's time you learned Water Magic…and to do that, we'll need to make a small trip…"


	23. Chapter 23: Uzer

Chapter Twenty-Three: Uzer

"Azzanadra? _The_ Azzanadra?" Paladin Anesti could hardly believe his ears as he listened to Athellenas tell him who was going to defeat Thammaron. "Are you insane?"

"I must be," Warmaster Athellenas murmured. He spurred Onyx a little to get his speed back up. The 1st Element of the Centralian Army had been on the move for three days. It had taken a full day to get everyone and everything over the bridge Azzanadra had risen over the Elid River. The next two days had been nothing but marching, marching, and more marching. There had absolutely nothing out in this part of the desert just east of the Elid but sand and dunes, as well as the occasional cactus or lizard.

Today was day four after the crossing of the Elid, and the desert was finally beginning to yield some changes. They must have been getting close to the ocean, because more and more vegetation was beginning to pop up, and the air was tasting a tad bit salty. There was also a pillar of black smoke rising up from the distance. That was good and bad; good because it meant the Centralians were close to Uzer…and bad because the smoke _was_ Uzer. The Menaphite capital was burning.

"Are you sure it's a good idea? Trusting someone…some_thing_ like Azzanadra?"

Athellenas shrugged. "Doesn't matter if it's a good idea; it's our _only_ idea. We both know what the alternative is: going into the city ourselves and dying. Sure, Azzanadra may not be the most trustworthy character…but he's offering us a pretty good deal. All we do is bust open the walls and he goes in and completely trashes everything inside."

"Who is Azzanadra?" Sir Derren finally interrupted, tired of hearing the two older men go on about something he didn't know. The name 'Azzanadra' _did_ strike a somewhat familiar chord with him…but he couldn't quite remember who it was.

"_Who_ is Azzanadra?" Anesti echoed, his voice almost high-pitched with disbelief. "You don't know who Azzanadra is?"

"Would I have asked if I did?"

Athellenas spoke up before Sir Derren and Anesti got riled up at each other too badly. "Azzanadra was the champion of Zaros."

"Zaros?" Sir Derren asked again for clarification. "The Empty Lord?"

"_Mm-hm,_" Athellenas nodded. "When Zamorak overthrew Zaros, four thousand or so years ago, this War was sparked. For centuries, _millennia_ after Zaros's disappearance, warriors of both Saradominist and Zamorackian forces—including us—have been fighting against and eradicating the last of Zaros's armies…and we weren't completely successful. Even today, remnants of the old Zarosian Empire still remain… Under the command of Zaros in that time were the Mahjarrat—a race of nearly immortal warriors. The Mahjarrat were easily the most powerful warriors and mages in all of Gielinor, with the exception of the Gods themselves. Fearsome fighters, they were…I don't think they ever lost a battle they participated in. It's no small wonder that Zaros, with the Mahjarrat under his command, was able to forge the largest empire this land has ever seen. When Zamorak betrayed Zaros, the Mahjarrat were divided in a civil war…Azzanadra led the loyalists against Zamorak's rebellion."

"So, Azzanadra was the champion of the Zarosian Armies…which _we_ have been hunting down and destroying for over four thousand years?" Sir Derren hesitated. "And…he's going to…_help_ us?"

"And therein lies the reason for the Paladin's agitation," Athellenas declared, impressed that his subordinate had caught on so fast. "Strange as our alliance may seem, Azzanadra is less of an enemy to us than he is to Zamorak. Having a common enemy can unite the most unlikely individuals…"

"The enemy of my enemy…" the Paladin began, waiting for Sir Derren to answer.

"…is my friend," the young knight finished. Nevertheless, Sir Derren shrugged and said, "I still don't trust him."

"Oh, Gods above, neither do I," Athellenas chuckled. "There is a difference between an ally and a friend. Azzanadra is an ally…not a friend. But regardless…we may not trust him, but we _do_ need him."

"Do the men know?"

Athellenas shook his head _no_. "They know that they need to breach the walls. Nothing more. Now, why don't you ride on back and inform the generals to start getting the legions into formation? We are getting close."

* * *

Warmaster Athellenas gazed down upon what was about to be the next battlefield that the 1st Element would clash with Thammaron's hordes. This was different from all the other times, however. This wasn't Iunu, this wasn't Shantay Pass…this was Uzer. And he was not facing some nameless demon commander, he wasn't facing the five-tailed demon…he was facing the elder-demon Thammaron himself.

The Warmaster was flanked on both sides by Sir Brezhnov, his artillery commander, and Sir Havarell, the cavalry commander. The three of them observed the expanse of land in between the knoll on which they stood and the great walls of Uzer, a distance of about a kilometer. The Menaphite capital stood near the coast of the Great Ocean. The coast itself was still a good distance away, but the area the city was located in was…well, it wasn't completely desert anymore.

While most of the Menaphite Empire comprised primarily of sand dunes and wastelands, this particular neck of the proverbial woods was more of a savannah than anything else. The sand had gradually firmed up into solid earth, and there was even yellow and light green grass waving in the wind.

Athellenas was glad to have left the heart of the desert behind him, if only temporarily. Though it was by no means any cooler in this part of the Menaphite Empire, it still felt nice to walk across solid land instead of the constantly shifting dunes.

"For a grand capital, that city isn't exactly built for ideal defense…" Sir Brezhnov muttered. "Sure, it's got some nice walls…but it is at the bottom of a gradual incline. That positioning…the city is just _begging_ to have artillery rained down from these heights."

"I don't think Uzer has ever come under attack, before," Athellenas shrugged. "It matters not. All we have to do is breach the walls, not wonder why the city was built where it was."

Uzer was an extremely large city. The sprawl of dwellings and buildings stretched out as far as the eye could see—which wasn't all that far, but far enough to put the Menaphite capital's size into perspective. It also wasn't just a flat expanse surrounded by walls, like most cities were. The Warmaster could see grand pyramids, temples, and parts of the city that were built on top of hills and plateaus that were elevated above the rest of the sprawl. It was definitely not a normal city.

Tethys, the capital of Centralia, had its inner city and palace built on a similar, man-made hill…but the city itself was nowhere near as opulent as Uzer was. Or rather, as Uzer _had been_.

Large chunks of those pyramids and temples were missing, and the entire city was pockmarked and blackened. Almost every visible building had either been torn to pieces, or was heavily damaged. A few were still on fire. The sky was a hazy gray, obscuring most of the sun; huge columns of smoke were still gushing into the sky from the destruction Thammaron's hordes had wreaked upon the city. Because of the walls, the Centralian soldiers could only see the tops of the buildings, not the actual streets…but the damage was still pretty evident.

The hundreds of thousands of monsters that were behind the city walls weren't visible, either…but Athellenas could hear the inhuman cries of the filth that had destroyed Uzer, even from the distance away that the 1st Element currently was.

As Athellenas watched, an organized phalanx of some ten thousand foot soldiers was marching into position, ready to begin the assault on the walls of Uzer the moment Athellenas gave the command. Athellenas had General Dhalit's X Legion leading the assault, giving Sinclair's IV Legion a much-deserved break. The IV and I Legions were on the X Legion's flanks.

As Athellenas studied the legions' progress, he observed the walls of Uzer through his spyglass. Hundreds, thousands of goblin archers were visible on the ramparts, intermingled with dark mages and smaller demons. Breaching the walls would not be bloodless for the 1st Element.

Athellenas sucked in a breath between his teeth as he looked at the ramparts. "This is going to be a tough one…" the Warmaster murmured.

"I have faith that you shall prevail," a stranger's voice suddenly said from behind. Athellenas, Brezhnov, and Havarell whipped around to suddenly come face to face with a thin, red-haired man with crimson eyes and a trimmed beard. He had come out of nowhere.

Sir Brezhnov immediately made a grab for his sword, but Athellenas stopped him. "He's with us," the Warmaster assured his artillery commander.

Azzanadra inclined his head in a slight nod, a faint grin flashing across his face. "I can feel Thammaron's presence…the elder-demon is here…my, he is powerful."

"You _can_ defeat him, right?" Athellenas asked the Zarosian Mahjarrat.

Azzanadra's brow furrowed in a slight frown; his only outward reaction to Athellenas's query. "I like you, Warmaster, so I shall pretend you did not ask me that. Zamorak's lieutenant is a powerful demon, indeed…but he is not Mahjarrat."

Athellenas shrugged. "He is your prey, not mine. I ask only because you know I have decided to trust you…I do not want to see my entire army die in this place."

"If ever you witness such a thing, it will not happen here," Azzanadra assured the Centralian Warmaster cryptically. "Perhaps sometime in the future, at the walls of another city…but not here."

Dark as Azzanadra's tone was, and much as Athellenas wanted to disagree, the Warmaster could find nothing flawed with the Mahjarrat's reasoning; the future of Centralia was very, _very_ uncertain. If the Menaphite Empire had fallen in such a short time…

Athellenas quickly shook his head, casting those thoughts from his mind. The Qarat was composed of fierce fighters…but it was disorganized and inefficient. The Centralian Army would be able to repel whatever Zamorak threw at it…at least, Athellenas hoped it would.

"Sir Brezhnov," Athellenas turned to his artillery commander. "The moment your men finish erecting the trebuchets, I want you to unleash hell on those walls. Sir Havarell, I want you to muster your mounted archers; send them in for a quick sweep right after the first barrage. Let's try to soften the bastards up a little bit."

"_Warmaster,_" the two veteran knight commanders clasped their fists to their hearts in a respectful salute and departed, heading down into the fray of the preparing legions.

"You know why Thammaron's hordes haven't moved on?" Athellenas finally asked Azzanadra after a few minutes of silent observation. "They've already burned Uzer; you'd think they would start heading south. I hear Menaphite survivors have congregated at Sophanem."

"He's waiting for _you,_ of course," Azzanadra chuckled. "For a bunch of mortal humans, your army is quite an effective fighting force. Certainly not a force to be brushed aside and ignored…and potentially a force that could cause him and Zamorak a good deal of trouble later in the future. He waits until he has destroyed you, for your kingdom's armies are the only main thing standing between Zamorak and the rest of the world."

"Oh, he's holding his party for _me?_" the Warmaster grumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm flattered."

Azzanadra's lips parted in a cold smile, displaying snow-white teeth. "Take great care, Warmaster. Thammaron knows of your accomplishments as of late. He knows that you are responsible for the death of the five-tailed demon, as well as the destruction of all of his rearguard forces. He is thirsty for your blood."

* * *

The roar of Sir Brezhnov's opening barrage shook the earth. Over a dozen flaming projectiles arced through the sky, leaving trails of dark smoke behind them. They started to sail into the great wall of Uzer, tearing out good-sized chunks of masonry. Athellenas smiled as he watched countless goblins and orks get obliterated by the explosions. The accuracy Sir Brezhnov managed to coax out of his clunky trebuchets was uncanny.

Athellenas did not like his location. He would rather be at the fore of the assault, where Sir Derren currently was…but in a battle as important as this one, he would have to be in a vantage point where he could see the _entire_ battle and react appropriately to any counterattacks the enemy might make; something he couldn't do if he was in the thick of things.

Azzanadra noticed the Warmaster keeping himself in check and gave a faint ghost of a smile. The man was warrior, through and through…something the Zarosian Mahjarrat could relate to.

More of the fireballs crashed into the walls, but they were holding firm. Athellenas hadn't expected the trebuchets to be able to break the walls on their own, anyway. That was the job of the battering ram teams, as well as the long-range mortar cannon.

As Athellenas watched, he could see Sir Havarell's cavalry archers sweeping in around from the legions' right flank, riding in splayed formation parallel to the walls. It was a sight to see—men riding hard, their steeds galloping along at full clip, drawing and firing arrows up into the ramparts. How they managed to stay so accurate despite their rapid movement, Athellenas would never know; the Warmaster was no archer.

The mounted archers took casualties—it was impossible to ride along ramparts filled with thousands of goblin archers and not lose anyone. The archers also inflicted losses on the goblins. Probably not enough to even put a dent in their strength…but what they succeeded at was causing chaos on the ramparts.

The gates of Uzer were the weakest part of the walls, and therefore Athellenas's target. Even now, he had three teams of men among the legions who were operating carefully-constructed battering ram units which would be more than sufficient to bring them down. Sir Brezhnov had been reluctant to bring the long-range mortar out behind its defenses—which would be necessary for it to be within range of Uzer's gate. Athellenas agreed—that mortar was irreplaceable.

The cavalry archers completed their circuit just as Sir Brezhnov sent another barrage the city's way. The ground shook again as the fury of the Fremmenik artillery commander's trebuchets broke upon the walls.

Just as planned, a piercing note from a signaling horn rolled across the plain. The legions, now spread out in a winged formation, started to move forward towards the city. The remaining monsters on the walls beat their weapons and shields, creating a loud, booming noise that, combined with their bloodthirsty shrieks, sounded almost like distant thunder.

The Warmaster kept a close eye on the three battering rams. He sincerely hoped nothing would befall them; the men who were operating the rams had all volunteered for the duty. They didn't deserve to meet their ends, no matter how much they were prepared to. The same went for the rest of the army…but regardless of whether or not they deserved it, it still happened.

Spearmen formed the first ranks of the advance, locking shields in a semi-impenetrable wall which arrows bounced off of. Many arrows simply sailed right over the first ranks, catching unfortunate legionnaires who had no way of deflecting them. There were spontaneous bursts of wind as battlemages attempted to stop the hail of arrows coming down from the ramparts, but they were only partially successful. Most of the arrows were stopped by the shield wall, even more by the battlemages' efforts…but the small remainder still amounted to a large number.

Athellenas gritted his teeth in frustration as he watched soldiers fall, felled by the goblin arrows. The scowl was softened to a grimace when he saw the Centralian archers begin to return fire, felling dozens more of the goblins.

To put things into perspective, the assault was not occurring just at the gate—the three legions of Athellenas's 1st Element were attacking a long portion of the walls, over a mile long, maybe two. This was a concentrated assault, but it was not a small one.

"Why do they not come out and destroy us?" Athellenas wondered aloud as he watched the progress of his men. "Surely they would succeed if they committed…"

"Thammaron knows that you have come to try to destroy him. You are on the offensive…so he waits for you to meet him inside the city. He knows you cannot keep your army out here in the desert for too long, while he has nearly unlimited supplies from the Menaphite capital. Were it not for me, you would have no choice but to invade Uzer itself," Azzanadra explained matter-of-factly. "He does little more than send archers against you now because he knows that your army will stand much less of a chance inside the city…so why waste any of his warriors?"

"Doesn't sound much like a demon…" Athellenas grunted, returning his gaze to his spyglass. "They care nothing for the hordes under their command."

"Thammaron is not most demons," Azzanadra countered. "Saying he cares for his filth would be a step too far…but he is a smart individual. He wants to keep as much of his horde alive as possible. That will make the eventual battles that will eventually occur in your home kingdom much easier for him."

"There will not _be_ any battles in Centralia," Athellenas asserted sharply. That was one subject he would not broach. "We will repel all of Zamorak's filth before they can set a single tainted foot on the soil of my lands."

All Azzanadra gave in reply was a somewhat amused chuckle, which unnerved Athellenas to a degree. The Warmaster decided not to think on such things right now. There was a battle to be won, first.

Sir Brezhnov's artillery continued to rain fire and hell on the city of Uzer, but the fireballs were now fired well over the wall and into the city itself. It was getting too dangerous to attack the wall with the legions so close.

The ram teams had reached the walls and were beginning to move them towards the massive sealed doors of Uzer's gate. "So why were you not able to get into the city yourself?" the Warmaster asked the Mahjarrat. "I remember you mentioning enchantments carved into the walls…but I can't see anything unusual."

"No, you cannot," Azzanadra confirmed. "Your mages would call them 'Enochian sigils'. No other race has a name for them. No one knows who made or discovered them, or just how old they are…but they are extremely powerful forms of magic that can ward off certain…things."

Athellenas raised an eyebrow, waiting for the Mahjarrat to continue.

"I do not know the full powers of Enochian sigils, but one thing they _can_ do, if performed correctly and in a certain way, is ward off members of my race."

Athellenas snorted. "So you're saying Thammaron basically Mahjarrat-proofed Uzer's walls?"

"That is a crude way of putting it…but yes," Azzanadra nodded. "I am unable to cross the threshold of the walls; it would be like-"

The Zarosian Mahjarrat suddenly paused, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. He drew in a sharp breath and his nostrils flared, as if he were sniffing something out. "_He knows_…" he murmured.

"Everything alright, there?"

Azzanadra's eyes shot open. "Pull your men back," he snapped suddenly. "Pull them back!"

"What are you talking about? They're about to-"

"Thammaron has learned of my presence," Azzanadra said to the Warmaster. "I sensed the sudden shift…the elder-demon has become extremely agitated. He knows that if the walls go down, I can get in…your men are in incredible danger right now. Pull them back."

Athellenas swore, knowing exactly what the Mahjarrat was getting at. If Thammaron knew that Azzanadra could get into the city once the walls were breached, then he would do everything in his power to prevent said walls from falling…which meant removing all threats to the integrity of that wall, which were the battering rams.

"Sound the retreat!" Athellenas bellowed to one of his aides. "Quickly!"

The aide raised a horn to his lips and blew a quick procession of three notes, sounding the signal for full retreat. The legions gradually stopped their advance and seemed to mill about in confusion for a few moments, obviously unsure of the validity of the order. After all, why would Athellenas ask them to abandon the assault when they were so close?

Athellenas swore once more. "Sound it again!" The three notes of the retreat signal echoed across the fields. "_Come on, Derren_…_ Turn them around_…" he murmured through clenched teeth.

Thankfully, the second retreat signal cleared away the initial confusion. The legions didn't completely turn around, they simply started walking backwards. This was standard procedure—you never, _ever_ present your back to an enemy.

A full minute after the retreat had been sounded, the legions were making fair progress away from the city walls. Doubtless the generals would demand an explanation for the sudden abandoning of the battle plan, but Athellenas could always deal with that. He would _not_ be able to deal with having the generals dead, along with all of their men.

The retreat hadn't started a moment too soon, either. A humongous explosion blew a crater into the ground in front of the gate, creating a giant, thick pillar of smoke. It was so think that Athellenas could not see through it.

A shape leaped out of the smoke. It was a demon, but it was larger than any demon Athellenas had ever seen before. It had to be at least fifty feet tall. It had the usual red skin that most demons possessed, several rows of glinting, hideously sharp teeth, equally deadly looking talons, and two massive horns that curved out from the sides of its head.

"_Thammaron_…" Athellenas whispered, the sight of Zamorak's most powerful lieutenant filling him with horror and awe. He murmured a quick prayer to Saradomin, but Azzanadra interrupted him with a cynical snort.

"Save your words, Warmaster; your God is not listening," the Mahjarrat scoffed.

As if to prove Azzanadra right, Athellenas watched as Thammaron let out a mighty roar and punched both if his fists out towards the retreating legions. Three bursts of fire shot out from the elder-demon—two from his fists, one from his head—and each one tore through the ranks of spearmen and hit the battering rams.

All three of the rams were disintegrated by the furious flames, as well as anyone unlucky enough to be too close. The agonized screams of burning men made Athellenas's gut twitch painfully.

Just as quickly as he had appeared, Thammaron vanished in another plume of smoke, his job finished. He had removed the 1st Element's ability to destroy the gate…or at least, any ability the 1st Element possessed that he _knew_ about. He didn't know about the mortar cannon.

Athellenas angrily slammed his spyglass into its resting position and slid it into his belt. He stepped over to Azzanadra and grasped the Mahjarrat by the lapel of his red overshirt. "You kill that son of a bitch, Mahjarrat," the Warmaster growled. "You kill him, and when you do…make it slow."

With that, Athellenas turned on his heel and whistled to Onyx, his mount. When the dappled gray and white steed trotted up to him, the Warmaster swung himself up into the saddle, spurring the horse down the back of the knoll and around to the 1st Element's field gunnery defenses, placed around the hospitals.

Azzanadra watched the Warmaster go. When Athellenas vanished around the knoll and out of his view, the Mahjarrat simply sat down cross-legged at the edge of the knoll and waited.

Athellenas returned to the battlements—hastily-dug trenches with wooden staves on their rims—and quickly searched for Sir Brezhnov. The broad-chested, Fremmenik-born artillery commander did not react favorably to Athellenas's desire to deploy the mortar cannon.

"I don't feel good about sending out the mortar," Sir Brezhnov murmured in protest. "That's putting it out in the open, and that baby is hard to fix when it gets nicked."

"It's our only option," Athellenas sighed. "Thammaron just cooked our battering rams. We've got nothing left to break those gates except our fists. And that mortar."

"Alright…" Sir Brezhnov still didn't sound happy, but he had just gotten orders from his Warmaster, so he had no choice but to obey.

The legions were spilling back into the defenses when Sir Brezhnov started getting the mortar cannon into position. The artillery commander personally manned the mortar, assisted by three of his artillerists. He did the aiming while another man fired and the other two cleaned and loaded it respectively after each shot.

"General Sinclair! General!" Athellenas called over to the IV Legion commander. "Muster your cohorts and establish a defensive line around Sir Brezhnov's mortar. I don't know if Thammaron will send anything after it…but if he does, that mortar needs to be protected. It's our only chance."

Sir Brezhnov's men still continued to keep the trebuchets firing at and around the gate. More and more goblins just kept on replacing the ones the barrages destroyed, but they were unable to actually mount an organized volley of arrows.

"Up ten degrees!" Sir Brezhnov barked. An artillerist turned one of the cranks that controlled the mortar's vertical aiming. There was another on that controlled the mortar's horizontal axis as well, and Sir Brezhnov adjusted that one, too. "_Fire!_"

Athellenas blinked reflexively as the mortar cannon roared, sending its projectile up into a wide arc. It streaked through the air and came down in front of the gate, blowing a large crater near the one that Thammaron had created.

Sir Brezhnov gave a dissatisfied grunt. "Allers, bring it back down five degrees," he ordered one of his men while the cleaner pushed a large sweep brush down the barrel of the mortar, cleaning out all of the black powder residue. When he was done, the last artillerist jerked a shell down the barrel of the mortar while the gunner primed it.

Meanwhile, General Sinclar and his subordinate centurions had gotten the IV Legion reasonably settled down into a protective semi-circle around the mortar cannon's position. To get within range, the mortar had to be moved a good distance out from the defenses of Athellenas's command knoll. This left it vulnerable to attack…so Athellenas took no chances and ordered an entire legion to surround it.

The X and I Legions, as per usual, secured the IV Legion's flanks, though such ground attacks probably would not occur.

Athellenas flinched again as the mortar cannon fired once more. This time, Sir Brezhnov's aim was true; the shell traveled in a perfect arc up through the sky before slamming down into the masonry on top of the massive gates. A large portion of the stone was blown away, as well as all of the ramparts that could be stood upon in that area.

A rumble of thunder could be heard as the smoke clouds in the sky started to turn pure black, completely blotting out the sun and drowning the desert in a state of nightfall. Crackles of lightning could be seen flitting around the storm clouds, which began to bulge ominously.

The Centralians started to rustle and murmur, extremely unnerved by these unnatural clouds. More thunder rolled through the plains and small lightning bolts flashed over the city.

The mortar fired again, this time scoring a hit directly onto the gates. The great stone and wooden doors trembled as a large hole was blown right through their upper halves. One more hit like that and the rest of the gates would fall.

That was when all hell seemed to break loose. Athellenas's heart dropped to his stomach when he saw dozens of motes of lightning crackling through the clouds, converging on a point directly above where the IV Legion was positioned. Thammaron was going to destroy the mortar with the lightning.

Powerless to stop it, Athellenas watched the combined lightning flash brightly and sear down from the clouds, bombing straight for Sir Brezhnov's mortar. Athellena braced himself for the massive explosion that was bound to be caused by the lightning…but it never came.

The Warmaster watched, astonished, as Paladin Anesti raised his arms and took the full force of the lightning, absorbing it into his body. The Paladin swayed, lightning crackling up and down his body. His skin actually seemed to glow faintly with the sheer power contained in his body.

Anesti's eyes were closed in deep concentration as he made a single, flowing gesture with his arm. He opened his eyes and snapped his right arm straight out. When he did that, the lightning shot out from his fingers, lancing up into the sky, where it dispersed harmlessly. The Paladin swayed in place for a few seconds, then collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Athellenas called for the medics, and a stretcher team quickly got Anesti safely back to a field hospital.

"Bring her down another hair!" Sir Brezhnov bellowed. "Call when ready!"

"Ready, sir!" the loader shouted after he jerked another shell into the barrel of the mortar cannon.

"_Fire!_"

The gunner pulled the firing lever, igniting the shell, sending it streaking into the gate. This third hit brought the rest of the doors down, but it wasn't enough. The entire wall had to be destroyed—that included the gates and the portion of the wall _above_ the gates. Fortunately, the loss of the actual gates made the gatehouse a lot easier to bring down.

Athellenas pulled his spyglass back out and took a closer look at the gate. To his unease, he could see scores of death knights and what looked like hellhounds pouring from the ruined gates. The death knights were silent, as usual, but the flaming hellish hounds were howling for blood. If that gate didn't come down, blood was what they were going to get.

Vyrewatch—powerful, nigh-unkillable winged vampyres—also soared up over the walls, making a beeline for Sir Brezhnov's position. The IV Legion would be powerless to stop them, as they could simply fly right overhead and land right around the mortar.

_Knock it down, Brezhnov_… Athellenas pleaded silently. _Knock it down_…

The next mortar shot hit the gatehouse, blowing off all of its frontal fortifications, laying bare the insides of the structure. Athellenas swore under his breath. There was no way Brezhnov could possibly reload the mortar before the vyrewatch were upon them.

That was when the trebuchets unleashed one last barrage; only instead of hitting a large section of the Uzer walls, all of the flaming projectiles were aimed specifically at the gate. Sir Brezhnov must have ordered his men to target the gates after a certain point…whatever the reason, the trebuchets' aiming at the gatehouse would save the 1st Element.

Normally, trebuchet projectiles were not enough to knock down entire walls, but the gatehouse was weaker than the rest of the walls, and it had already lost most of its support when the gates went down. It simply couldn't stand up to a dozen of the projectiles slamming into it at once.

With one final groan of protest, the gatehouse of Uzer collapsed, crashing to the ground in a pile of ruined masonry and stone. Anything passing through the gates at the time was crushed, but that hardly put a dent in their numbers. More and more monsters simply started streaming over the wreckage.

The vyrewatch howled in anticipation as they swooped down towards the mortar. Athellenas slowly drew his sword, holding it up towards the leading vampyre. The runite glinted blue, reflecting the bright fires burning behind Uzer's walls.

However, just as the vyrewatch were about to land, there was another sudden bright flash. White energy that took on the shape of lightning speared through each of the descending vampyres. The vyrewatch's howls of bloodlust turned to screams of agony as they writhed in midair, trying to escape the hellstorm of energy.

After a second, the vyrewatch were no more. Gone. Vaporized.

A bright white light illuminated the shadows from behind the 1st Element's position. As the field gunneries opened fire on the charging death knights and hellhounds, Athellenas turned around to see Azzanadra standing on the edge of the command knoll, his arms held high above his head.

The Mahjarrat was surrounded by a blinding white aura…almost like a vortex of energy which he was manipulating with his hands and mind. Athellenas looked at the Mahjarrat through the spyglass, his eye watering up with tears as he tried to see through the brightness.

Azzanadra had transformed into…something else. He was no longer a thin, average-sized man with red hair and a red beard. He no longer looked like a traveler who made his living on the roads. The Mahjarrat was now clad in a deep maroon cloak. His hands were pale white, just like they had been when he had been the Stranger, but his face…

He had no face, or even a head. Instead, there was a skull…a flaming skull, with terrifying yellow lights glowing from the eye sockets. He looked like a Lich. Perhaps that was his true form.

More bolts of the white energy shot forth from Azzanadra, lancing into the scores of charging monsters. The death knights and hellhounds stopped dead in their tracks, going into severe convulsions as the white energy tore through them. The storm of Azzanadra's white lightning utterly massacred the charging monsters of Thammaron's horde.

The Mahjarrat then vanished, disappearing in a purple haze of light. The 1st Element stood in utter silence as they saw Azzanadra rematerialize in front of the ruined gate. The Zarosian Mahjarrat strode into the city, vanishing from view once more.

For the next ten or so minutes, howls and screams of dying monsters all too easily reached the ears of the observing Centralians. Blinding white explosions of light lit up the darkened plain as Azzanadra vented his fury on Thammaron's Zamorackian hordes in the city. The Mahjarrat seemed to be everywhere at once—fires were breaking out in all parts of the city.

One of the great pyramids burst into a million pieces, sending debris flying for miles. Some of the shards even made it as far as the 1st Element's lines, though none caused any casualties.

Flashes of red started to clash with the flashes of white. Deep in the heart of Uzer, Thammaron himself must have engaged Azzanadra. The rolling thunder from the duel became so loud that the Centralians had to cover their ears to prevent any permanent damage.

The explosions and flashes of energy became more and more rapid and intense until it looked to Athellenas as if someone had detonated a million fireworks at the exact same time. The sheer speed of the clashes of power started to make the Warmaster's head hurt.

Then the furious flashes of magical energy stopped suddenly, as if someone threw a switch. There was silence for one second…two seconds…three seconds…

Then another clap of thunder, many times louder than the rest, shook the ground and everyone on it to their very cores. Athellenas shielded his eyes, staggering back several steps, trying to look at the Menaphite capital. The ground was shaking like an earthquake…almost as if the Gods themselves were stomping on this part of the land.

There was a titanic explosion of white light off in the distance, in the center of Uzer. The light grew brighter and brighter, and then it suddenly exploded outward, consuming everything in its path.

The world whited out and Athellenas knew no more.


	24. Chapter 24: Water

Chapter Twenty-Four: Water

"You gonna tell me where we're going, yet?" Avis asked for the umpteenth time, taking care to avoid tripping on the vines that seemed to reach up from the ground to snag his ankles.

"Did I tell you the last six times you asked?" Jerrod sighed.

Avis hesitated. "_No_…" the boy finally admitted.

"Then what makes you think you will succeed by asking a seventh time? Please tell me; I'm curious to see what goes on in that little mind of yours."

Avis and Jerrod had been walking for several hours, heading towards an unknown destination. Well, _Avis_ had no idea where Jerrod was going—the Cleric knew the route extremely well.

"I dunno…" the ten-year-old shrugged. "You don't talk a lot…and we've been walking a long time. I like to know _where_ I'm going…"

"I would imagine," Jerrod agreed, pushing aside a curtain of vines to reveal another lake. It was smaller than Jerrod's home lake, though, and its surface was covered in a film of green scum and algae. Jerrod took a deep breath and spread his arms wide, still talking as a straight path of water solidified into ice. "Being a thief in Ullek would mean not only being fast, but knowing exactly where you are going, at all times…"

"Uh…_yeah,_" Avis nodded quickly, seeing the way out of his predicament and throwing himself upon it with the vigor of a drowning man grasping a rope. "Yeah, that's exactly it. _Ugh,_ I can't stand-"

Jerrod sighed, stepping onto his path of ice. As he moved forward, he continued to lengthen the ice path, walking across the breadth of the lake. Avis followed close behind. "You had it perfect, kid," the Cleric shook his head in amusement, freezing another swathe of lake water. "The tone of voice, the emotion, the pacing—you had it all perfect. Then you started embellishing and you lost it. People will be asking us questions in the days ahead…never reveal anything about yourself, and never answer anymore than what the question asks for."

"You want me to lie?" Avis frowned. "Aren't Saradominist monks supposed to be honor-bound to the truth?"

Jerrod snorted. "Who's been spoon-feeding you _that_ bullshit, huh? And besides, I'm no monk. I'm a…I'm a…" the Cleric made a face, frowning as he tried to think of a suitable name to describe his position before realizing that there really _was_ none. "Well, I really don't know _what_ I am, exactly. I'm just a Cleric. But I'm no monk, that's for sure. For example, I could lie right now and tell you that you are doing an admirable job of training with your sword."

Avis pursed his lips indignantly. "You've trained and fought for _years_; I've barely had a month-" the ten-year-old broke off when he heard the Cleric's soft laughter, realizing that Jerrod had only been ribbing him.

"Humor, boy; that's something _every_ man needs," Jerrod chuckled. "Unfortunately, it is not something that can be taught. More's the pity…what a place this world would be if only there was a little more humor and laughter in it…"

After another stretch of silence, Avis spoke up again once he and Jerrod reached the opposite shore. "You mentioned people questioning us in the future…" the boy frowned. "Who is going to be doing that? This swamp doesn't exactly have a thriving population."

"Sure it does," the Cleric countered, stepping onto the sand of the lake's miniature beach. Once Avis stepped off the ice path as well, the Cleric waved his hand and the ice path melted back into the water from which it had been made. "There are more insects, fish, and amphibians here than there are criminals on Karamja."

"_Humans,_" Avis clarified. "There aren't any other _people_ here."

"Well, you're quite correct, there," Jerrod conceded. "There will be no one questioning us here. But we will not be staying here forever."

"We're _leaving_ the swamp?"

"In a year or two, yes," Jerrod nodded.

"But…but…but, there's no _way_ I can master the elements in a _year!_" Avis protested. "That's like asking me to-"

"Oh, will you be quiet?" Jerrod interrupted the boy, pushing aside another loop of vines and forging on ahead into the swamp. "Of course you won't master the elements in a year! You'll only be mastering Water here. To master Earth and Fire, we will be traveling."

"Why can't we learn them here?"

"Because…" Jerrod started to say, but he quickly changed his mind and shrugged instead of answering. "Not that I don't enjoy seeing you squirm because you don't have all the answers…but you'll see after we're done Awakening you."

"Doing _what_ to me?" Avis clasped his head. There were too many unknown factors, too many new complications…it all seemed to be crashing in on him all at once.

"Awakening you—you know what? No more questions," Jerrod declared. "You'll see for yourself very soon. We're getting close…"

Avis was about to say, '_Close to what?_' but clamped down on the insides of his cheeks at the last second. No need to break Jerrod's 'request' _right_ after he made it.

'Very soon' turned out to be two more hours of walking and bushwacking. The sun was beginning to sink into the west by the time Jerrod began to slow down. Avis was conscious of the fact that they had reached a small hill of sorts. It was hard to see the actual hill because of all the foliage and trees covering it…but there was a noticeable slope with several streams trickling down it.

"We are here," Jerrod announced once they finally reached the top of the hill. The Cleric pushed a cluster of vines aside and invited Avis to step ahead. The ten-year-old tentatively stepped forward, emerging into a clearing. The top of the hill offered Avis a good view of the surrounding swamp for miles. It was covered in grass and small flowers—contrasting sharply with the blues, greens, and browns of the surrounding swamp.

Right in the center of the whole place were ruins, putting it bluntly. They looked like they had been an altar of some sort at one point. Now, they were weathered and…well, _ruined_. Covered in green moss and lichen, they looked as if they had been that way for a long time. There had used to be four plinths surrounding a circular stone altar—only one of the plinths was still standing, and the other three had been broken down. They lay in pieces around the central altar. They were shaped like tongs almost; two straight stone slabs standing vertical, with a third slab capping them on top.

The central altar—a circular stone dolmen—looked as if it had been stomped upon by a giant foot. It was cracked into thirds, partially caved in. However, a soft, blue glow was pulsing up through the cracks…constantly moving, almost like the reflection of water. This was magic at work.

Avis wandered towards the ruins, his eyes lighting up with wonder at the strange light. He saw that the streams flowing down the hill all came from these ruins—the water simply flowed out from under the ruins, coming seemingly from of empty space. It was…inexplicable.

Avis took another step towards the ruins and fell to his knees suddenly, clasping his head in both hands. A woozy, almost nauseous sensation spread through his body and his skull seemed to throb with a headache.

The boy threw himself back away from the ruins, pulling himself back with his hands. "_Ohh_…" he groaned, shaking his head and clearing away the dizzy sensation.

"What was that all about?" Jerrod asked, making his way towards the boy.

"I…I don't know…" Avis stammered, climbing back to his feet. "I was just walking towards those ruins, then I just felt so dizzy all of a sudden…"

"Well, I'm not surprised," Jerrod shrugged. "You're a..." the Cleric stopped himself suddenly, not saying what he was about to say. He still wanted further confirmation on his suspicions before he started telling Avis about them. Instead, he said, "You're…uh…you're more sensitive to elemental magic than most other people are. That is why it affects you in this way."

Avis shrugged, knowing that the Cleric would not elaborate. "What's that?" he pointed at the shiny object that the older man held. It was a metal object, but it also seemed to glow with that same strange blue light that was coming from the ruined altar.

"It's a talisman…" the Cleric murmured. "I was going to give it to you, but I don't think you will be needing it anymore…the power inside you might act as a key…"

"Huh?"

"I want you to walk towards the ruins," the Cleric ordered. "And do not stop, even if you feel as if you're about to pass out."

"But-"

"If you do not continue forward here, then all that nice walking you've done today will have been for nothing," the Cleric reasoned giving a slight shrug. "No matter…we can always go back to the cottage and walk here again tomorrow…and the next day…and the next day, until you-"

"_Alright,_ I'm going…" Avis muttered, bracing himself for the nausea once more and forcing himself to step towards the ruins. At first, knowing what to expect, he was fine…but as he got closer and closer to the mossy, glowing ruins, the dizziness slammed him hard, making him stagger.

Avis would not stop, though. He clasped his head and stomach and grimaced at the discomfort, but kept on putting one foot in front of the other. When he was within reach of the plinths, he was gagging and coughing, the headache in his skull feeling like a cannon was going off beside it.

Still, the boy kept on forcing his way forward. The exertion was too great, however. The moment Avis stepped past the threshold of the plinths, the dizziness overcame him and he collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

* * *

Avis was out only for a minute, or so. When he opened his eyes, he found, much to his surprise, that he was no longer on that hill in the Virid Swamp. The endless sprawl of wooded, jungle-like marshlands was gone…replaced with a beautiful expanse of sparkling, rainbow-colored water. There was no coast or mainland…there were only tiny islands stretching for as far as the eye could see. Fish leaped through the water and air, birds chirruped, and frogs croaked, leaping from lily pad to lily pad.

Avis was on an island himself. Basically, it was a hill rising out of the water. It was covered in soft blue-green grass and many different species of flowers. Bees and other insects buzzed around all these flowers, packing away pollen and nectar. At the top of the island's hill, towards the center of the small landmass…Avis spied four plinths up there, as well as that same mysterious blue glow.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Jerrod hummed.

Avis whirled around, looking at the Cleric, who had not been standing there a moment earlier. "Where am I? What is this place? What happened to-"

"Peace," Jerrod held up his hands, quelling the boy. "You'll collapse under the weight of your own questions, boy. Walk with me," the Cleric said, turning towards the hilltop up ahead. As Avis fell in step with him, the Cleric started to explain. "As you know, mages need runes to invoke the elements. This is because we do not have elemental energy inside of us, and therefore need a source of pure elemental energy on hand in order to cast a spell involving a certain element."

"Except for me," Avis reminded him.

"Yes, except for you…and certain others…" Jerrod murmured. "But for the rest of us mere mortals, _this_ place is where runes are made. Specifically, water runes. Welcome to the Water Temple, one of the most beautiful places in…well, wherever it is."

"You make runestones here?"

"_Mm-hm,_" Jerrod nodded. "Rune essence is a type of rock created by the Gods themselves…but it is worthless on its own. Mages, once they have acquired rune essence, must travel to one of the elemental temples to imbibe the stone with the power of that temple's element. This is the place mages come to imbibe their rune essence with the power of Water."

"And how do they do that?"

"That altar," Jerrod pointed to the altar, "is a divine repository of the elemental energy of Water. By infusing a runestone with some of your own Anima Mundi over the altar, you create an elemental rune—in this case, a water rune. This is known as runecrafting."

"Well, how does it apply to me?"

"I am going to try to…'awaken' you, for lack of a better way of describing it," Jerrod explained. "The ruins back in the swamp; they were just an illusion. To gain entry to this temple, you must have a water talisman," the Cleric held out the strange blue object he had held before. "You, however, proved that you were able to enter without the aid of such trinkets. Do you know why?"

Avis shrugged. "Uh…no?"

"It is because of your power. It is also the reason why you do not seem to need runestones to cast magic…" Jerrod said. "The powers of the elements are already inside of you. They are a part of you and you are a part of them…"

"Then why aren't I godlike with my powers, yet?" the boy complained. "Why can I only use Air?"

"You're seriously asking me that?" Jerrod cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "You can't use the other elements because you do not know _how_. All that raw, primal power is locked up inside of you…but you have no idea how to use it. It is dormant. But…exposing you to the energy of this altar, I think, will awaken the Water magic inside of you. Almost like lighting a torch with a spark."

"Okay…" Avis nodded hesitantly, barely understanding what his teacher was saying, but just deciding to go along with it. The Cleric hadn't been wrong yet, so why should he start now? "What…um…what do I do?"

"You can start by climbing up on top of the altar," Jerrod replied.

Avis did as he was told, cautiously approaching the glowing water altar. When he didn't feel any of that horrible sensation that had overcome him before, he walked normally, hauling himself up onto the top of the glowing blue dolmen.

The boy sat down in the center of the altar. He noticed that there was a large water drop carved into the surface of the altar—the symbol of Water.

"Now focus…" Jerrod instructed him. "Focus…feel the energy under you…inside of you…"

Avis could already feel the Water energy of the altar he was sitting on. It was so _strong_…such a pure source of elemental energy…it made the hair on the boy's neck stand up on end. Such a force under someone's control would surely make that person…invincible—_no,_ Avis shook his head. That energy source was not to be trifled with. Used and manipulated, perhaps…but not bent to anyone's will.

"Feel the energy…" Jerrod repeated. "Do not shut it out…_embrace it_…"

Avis realized that he had subconsciously buffered himself from the raw power of the Water Altar, throwing up mental blocks to keep the humming energy out. Avis closed his eyes and took a deep breath, concentrating on and systematically lowering those instinctive mental blocks.

The boy cringed as the elemental power of the Water Altar touched his own…it felt as if his mind had been submerged in cold water, being directly exposed to such power.

The discomfort only lasted a moment, because it quickly turned to pain. The power of the Water Altar enveloped Avis's Anima Mundi and began to seep into it. Avis felt something ignite deep inside him…it started as a slight burning sensation, but quickly ballooned into a body-wide explosion of fire. Well, it wasn't _really_ fire…but it felt as if an inferno was ripping through the inside of his body.

Avis knew that it must have been his inner elemental energy being unlocked…just as Jerrod said it would. It would have been nice if Jerrod had at least mentioned that it was going to be agony, though. That might have helped him prepare.

The Cleric watched as the boy started to shift and fidget, clearly in extreme discomfort. Truth be told, he knew he was taking a gamble by trying to Awaken the boy's elemental energies in this manner…but the only other way to get Avis's powers up to snuff was a decade or two of hard training…and Centralia didn't have that sort of time.

This was the only way…and Jerrod had no idea how it was going to turn out. He was essentially runecrafting a child; the mere thought of the deed didn't inspire much confidence.

Motes of blue energy started to shimmer over Avis's pale skin, gradually solidifying into ripples and waves of different shades of blue, almost as if a film water was flowing over the child. The Water energy gave off a soft blue glow.

Then things started to get a little more…extreme. The soft film of Water energy seemed to explode outward in a blinding flash of blue light. Avis let out an ear-splitting scream as the Water energy inside of him was violently unleashed, setting forth waves and waves of pure, untapped, raw elemental energy through the ten-year-old's body.

Jerrod staggered back a step, blinking the light from his eyes. He reflexively stepped back towards the writhing boy, intending to give him a hand, but quickly stopped himself. Interfering at this point would end up hurting Avis even more. The Cleric simply stood there, watching helplessly with nothing to do except wring his hands.

The boy had risen a few feet into the air, as if he had suddenly become weightless. He started to convulse, bright bursts of blue light flashing from his eyes, fingers, feet, and chest as he writhed in mid-air.

When Jerrod was finally able to look at the scene unfolding over the altar once more, he was horrified—well, perhaps _surprised_ would have been a better adjective—to find that Avis had…changed.

As the boy continued to undergo the violent process of unlocking part of his inner power, his Human guise had finally slipped. Instead of the thin, pale-skinned, black-haired ten-year-old boy Jerrod was familiar with, struggling in the air was a translucent pale shape. Avis was still boy-shaped—possessing arms, legs, and a torso—but the boy's body had become…incorporeal, almost…as if it were only partially in this plane of existence. It looked like the boy's normal body, but it also looked like a skeleton at the same time…it was hard to explain without getting a headache.

The boy's face was also gone, his freckled, delicate features replaced by a skull. It was not a simple skull, though; Avis's eye sockets glowed red, and his skull was aflame with a cold, blue fire that gave off no heat. And while his skeleton-body was a translucent white shade…the flaming skull was as solid and opaque as Jerrod's own head.

This was Avis's true form. The ten-year-old boy was simply a guise…this creature was clearly a young child, but it was no Human; that much was for certain.

For Jerrod, everything fell into place. The boy's skin color, his immunity to sunburn despite living in the desert his whole life, his ability to cast magic without the aid of runestones, his mastery of Air while only a child, his eyes that Jerrod had once thought were an odd shade of lightish brown, but actually turned out to be crimson…everything now made sense. This was simply the final piece of the puzzle. Jerrod had already suspected this for a time, but now he needed no more confirmation.

The Cleric watched the Awakening calm and quiet down, watching as Avis's Lich form rested back down on top of the Water Altar, motes of blue energy still crackling up and down his body.

He looked at the boy's face—he could faintly see Avis's normal face over the skull, though it flickered in and out of visibility. The red glow in the eye sockets had gone dark with the boy's unconsciousness. In the ghostly, barely-visible image of Avis's human face over his Lich face, his eyes were also closed.

Jerrod stepped up to the altar, gazing down at his apprentice, and murmured one single word: "_Mahjarrat_…"

* * *

**_End of Book I_**


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